Marked Indelibly
by dreaminginnorweigen
Summary: For 4 years they've been "the tattoo guy" and "the florist" to one another. When their paths finally converge can he help her heal from a painful past? Can she him? Em/R surrounded by a mixed cast of characters. Edward on call for comic relief. AH/AU
1. Chapter One::Lilac::Memory

**Ok. Here we go...**

**This is my first. And the result of breaking through a bout of writer's block that has lasted way too long. (Like years...)**

**You know the drill by now. The recognizable names are not mine. The story is...**

**Thank you to my friend who sometimes goes by RillaotValley. Look what you've done! And to Zaza724. Look what I did! They beta'd and held my hand as they led me down the primrose path.**

**And thank you to winterstale, who showed me the awesomeness of Emmett. Here is my ode... InkEmm**

**Chapter One::Lilac::Memory**

The bell on the door jingled just as Rosalie approached. A rhythmic hum drifted out, followed by the lithe and tattooed body of a woman and the raucous laughter of men. The woman's hand slid slowly along the length of the door handle as she leaned out of the shop, while her feet remained balanced on the edge of the concrete step. A riot of color twisted its way up her arm and under the sleeve of her t-shirt. When she turned her head to look back into the shop, Rosalie could see tendrils of ink creeping out of the collar of her shirt and up the back of her neck, right to the edge of her short hair.

She passed Miss Pixie's a few times a week, as she made her way to the market after work. I was a laughable name for a tattoo shop, but she guessed that was probably the point. The word _Pixie_ made most people think of tiny woodland creatures; at least it did her. And the honorific _Miss_? None of it matched up with the people she saw coming in and out of the shop. And though she was sure the slight dark-haired girl that had just tumbled out of the door had likely been called a pixie in her lifetime—when she was younger, before her first tattoo—she doubted anyone would call her one now.

"That's what she said!" rumbled a deep voice from inside, followed by more laughter.

"That just doesn't get old, does it Emmett?" she called back, in feigned annoyance.

"Nope," answered a chorus of male voices.

"No. I guess not."

"Woah-whoop..." she snorted as she skidded off the step and onto the sidewalk.

Rosalie smiled. She had actually snorted.

The buzzing stopped for a second and more chuckles followed. "Watch yourself there, Alice," called another male voice.

"Whatever," she giggled as the buzz started up again. "See ya Monday."

All this transpired as Rosalie walked by. And even though she felt a curious pull to turn and put faces to the voices, she didn't look back. She tipped her chin up a bit and continued to walk with purpose down the block.

-:-

"You work at Floriography, don't you? The flower shop down a few blocks?"

Rosalie looked behind her in line and found the girl she now knew was Alice, looking up at her. She was a full head shorter with dark hair ironically styled into what Rosalie thought was called a pixie cut.

"Uhhh..."

"I work at Miss Pixie's. I'm apprenticing, but, you know, I work the desk there for now. Scheduling and stuff."

"Yes," Rosalie mumbled, digging into her purse for the change she needed. "I've seen you there. With the tattoo guy. The owner, I think."

"Oh?" Alice asked, raising one of her carefully groomed eyebrows as she gave Rosalie a quick once over looking for tattoos.

Rosalie stared back at her in quiet shock. "Well, no," she stumbled, having a hard time tearing her eyes away from the delicate black outlines of tiny hearts that dusted over the peak of Alice's pierced eyebrow. "Not as a customer. I mean... I mean that I walk by there a few times a week. "

"Ahhh," Alice said, nodding. "Tattoo guy, eh? The owner. Emmett, you mean. Big guy?"

Rosalie half shrugged, half nodded. _Emmett._

"Do you have any tats?" Alice giggled and then not pausing for an answer, she added conspiratorially, "The boys hate it when I call them that."

"Ummm..."

"No? I thought you might. Hmph." She tilted her head back and to the side and looked Rosalie up and down again. "But you've thought about it. Haven't you?"

Rosalie took the canvas shopping bag that Esme, the cashier, was handing back to her and pursed her lips. _Who is this girl?_

Alice dumped a cucumber and a bottle of ranch dressing onto the conveyor belt, never taking her eyes off Rosalie. She grabbed a bag of peanut M&Ms and threw them down, too. "I'm not being weird," she stated, matter of factly. "But I can usually tell. Tattoos are something that just get under some people's skin, so to speak," she said, rolling her eyes at her own pun. "And I've got a sense for it."

"I..."

"She's got one, for example," Alice said, leveling her eyes at Esme.

Rosalie turned, looking incredulously at the cashier, who had to be pushing 60 years old. She had been shopping at Cullen's Corner Market for nearly six years, and nothing she had observed about Esme would ever make Rosalie think she might have a tattoo.

"Come on, Esme," Alice coaxed. "You do, don't you?"

Rosalie bit her lip in embarrassment as Esme dipped her chin at Alice, looking at her over her glasses. Alice flicked her eyebrows, smiling and nodding as she leaned over the conveyor belt. Rosalie was just opening her mouth to say something when Esme sighed and reached for the sleeve of her worn grey cardigan. She paused, looking back at Alice, whose whole body at this point was bobbing up and down with glee. Then turning her lips up in a pursed smile as she pulled her sleeve back to reveal a tattoo of swirling script on the inside of her forearm.

"See!" Alice squealed. "I knew it!"

Rosalie stepped forward, unable to hide her astonishment. Her eyes shifted in rapid succession from Esme's warm but wrinkled face to her even more wrinkled arm. Yes. She felt surprised. And something else. Excitement?

Alice reached over and gently tugged Esme's arm toward her. Rosalie moved in closer, as well, looking up and around the market. Where was everyone? It should have been buzzing with the after-work crowd, but aside from the shifting of boxes and low grunts coming from the back of the store she saw and heard no one.

"When did you get it?" Alice breathed as she traced the tips of her fingers over the text. Rosalie couldn't see what it said, but she could tell, even though Esme had clearly had it for a while, it was beautiful.

"1991," she said. Rosalie looked up and saw the older woman's face soften in sadness. Alice pulled her hand back revealing the whole tattoo: _Alistair_. It was simple. Just script in black ink. The edges were feathering a bit, but the workmanship was fine and holding up well after almost 20 years.

"Alistair," Rosalie whispered and the eyes of the other two women shot up to her face. "Um... I'm sorry," she mumbled looking back down at her grocery bag.

"No, no, it's alright," Esme said, pulling her arm back from Alice. She lightly tapped her three middle fingers over the tattoo before sliding her sleeve back down. "My younger brother," she said quietly. "He died in the war." And with that she turned back to the register and started adding up Alice's purchases.

Alice quickly handed over a twenty to pay for her items and then threw them into her messenger bag. "Thanks, Esme. And, thanks for sharing your ink."

Esme nodded kindly and step out from behind the counter heading to the back of the store. "Carlisle," she called. "Don't tell me you're moving those boxes. Edward can do it in the morning." She was answered by an irritated grunt.

After watching her go, Alice turned back to Rosalie and smiled impishly. "I didn't mean to dig into anything too painful... but I could tell she was marked," she added in a rush.

Rosalie stared at her, shifting her grocery bag to her shoulder. "But how?"

"Dunno," Alice shrugged. "It just comes to me. It's one of the reasons that the boys like me working the counter at Miss Ps. I'm great at pulling in customers. I can sniff out people that already have the taste for it, even if they're hiding it. And I've got a special talent for finding newbies," she said waggling her eyebrows pointedly at Rosalie. "The ones that are curious and just waiting to pop their cherries." She giggled, walking toward the door.

Rosalie followed her dumbly. _Who is this girl?_

_-_:::::_-_

_Oleander::Beware_

_Oak Leaves::Brave_

_Yellow Acacia::Secret Love_

_Mustard Seed::Indifference_

_Moonwort::Forgetfulness_

_Aspen Tree::Lamentation_

_Aloe::Sorrow_

_Harebell::Grief_

_Adonis::Sorrowful Remembrance_

_-:-_

Floriography was Rosalie's birthright. A small florist's shop in what was now one of the more trendy neighborhoods in town.

It hadn't always been that way. When her parents opened the shop just after they married the block was on the very edge of an area that was considered "acceptable". Two blocks further and it was _too gritty _Rosalie's grandparents had told them. _Polite society won't venture to buy from you when they could go elsewhere, somewhere safer, _they warned_._But it was the rent they could afford. And when Adelaide Hale looked at the brightly lit corner building with big plate glass windows and dark blue awnings all she could see was the perfect place to start her life with her new husband. So that's exactly what they did.

Over the years the character of the city shifted and changed. People moved into the urban areas to be closer to work and forward-thinking developers bought up the gritty, abandoned industrial buildings and turned them into lofts. Small restaurants and markets opened and more and more businesses moved into the neighborhood to support the tastes of the new, upwardly mobile residents. Hale's Flowers benefited from the gentrification and soon Adelaide and Robert were able to buy the building that they had been renting in for years. They expanded their retail space and storage and moved themselves and their young daughter into the apartment above the shop. Life was good.

Rosalie literally blossomed in the creative environment she was raised in. Always quiet and artistic she started to help her father build arrangements after school when she was just 14. Though Adelaide's major contribution to the shop was her keen negotiating sense and gift for numbers, her knowledge of the Victorian art of floriography provided endless hours of entertainment as she interpreted the hidden meanings behind the bouquets that customers ordered.

"He must be having an affair," she would titter. Or, "Ohhh, she'd better watch her back," when a woman sent an arrangement with basil and birdsfoot trefoil to a friend. "Revenge is on that one's mind."

Robert would chuckle at his wife, but Rosalie, though smiling on the outside began to watch more carefully which blooms went with others. She read her mother's floriography books at night and started suggesting combinations to her father that she thought might change people's fortunes, or send less hostile messages.

"No yellow carnations with red roses, Papa," she said one afternoon. "They mean, 'No!' And, well, that just looks bad." Robert always obeyed with a smile, enjoying any moment when his shy daughter would chose to speak her mind.

By the time Rosalie was leaving to attend Savannah College of Art and Design she was as well versed in the language of flowers as her mother—maybe more—and her own art was full of secret messages. Every joy and hurt found its way into her paintings and sketches in the form of a bloom. And every sentiment that went unsaid in the face of her overwhelming shyness she communicated clearly enough with a flower.

She had pinned oleander and oak leaves in her hair when the girls in high school had bullied her for her "art geekiness" and what was likely jealously over her quiet beauty. _Back off! I'm brave enough to handle you,_it screamed. Just as the tiny wreath of yellow acacia told her freshman-year Drawing I professor that she was secretly in love with him. Professor Varner clearly didn't understand that when he picked it up and dropped it in the trashcan beside the door, distaste showing plain on his face. "Don't bring flowers into this studio," he sneezed broadly to the students filing into the room. "I'm allergic."

It was likely that if he had known it was Rosalie who had left the little token on his blackboard, he might have acted differently. Freshman year cafeteria food and hormones had filled out her curves. Gone was the skinny flat-chested girl that the high school bullies had made fun of. In her place, Rosalie was sporting more boobs and hips than a Vargas pinup girl. Though not quite stylish, she was attractive, and he had already thought more than once about offering her a private critique session. But his public rebuff, oblivious as he was, had her drawing mustard seed blooms of indifference the rest of the semester, ending any chance that she would take him up on an offer like that.

The first three years at SCAD went quickly. Rosalie settled on illustration as her major, toying fleetingly with the idea of becoming a scientific botany illustrator. And though floriography continued to dominate her work, she used it less and less as a screen to hide behind. By sophomore year the friends she had made settled into a nice tight-knit group. They traveled in a pack and she felt comfortable enough that she could tell them things directly, no longer communicating cryptically with flowers. She trusted them.

Vera, a brash, strawberry-blond, film major she met in that first drawing class, attached herself to Rosalie and didn't let go. By keeping her giggling with her parade of ironic t-shirts and a running commentary on who_doing_whom, Vera didn't allow her to sink too deep within herself. Rosalie found it easy to coast in Vera's wake and there was no expectation that she had to do more than that. It was comfortable and certainly not competitive.

They enjoyed the same books and many of the same movies, but found their true kinship in the dressing rooms of Savannah's thrift stores. Midterm shopping therapy bonded them in a way that nothing else had. And Rosalie learned something, too. Under Vera's tutelage she found that clothes made her bold. That pencil skirts and form-fitting scoop-necked sweaters were made exactly for her new, art school body. Red lipstick made her stand up taller. And when she slipped on a pair of spectator pumps, there was nothing she couldn't face down.

When registration for junior year came around there was no question that they would be roommates. Rosalie returned home to work at Hale's Flowers for the summer already looking forward to getting back to school. Her parents marveled at her newfound confidence and raised their eyebrows at her wardrobe. But, more than anything, they were happy to see their daughter had found her voice, so they kept the comments to a minimum. Rosalie started to learn how to help her mother keep inventory and manage the books. She conducted animated brainstorming sessions with her father about how he might integrate the theories of ikebana into his arrangements. Life was good.

Rosalie returned to SCAD in September to her first off-campus apartment and a part-time job with Vera at their favorite thrift store. They fell into a comfortable routine of class, work and parties. Vera had discovered over the summer that she was desperately in love with her best friend from high school, which made Rosalie wonder in a very practical way if she should fall in love, too.

She had always been baffled by them: boys. High school hadn't helped with that. Most guys she knew had always been nice to her one-on-one. She might have even experienced a time or two when a cool chill slipped up the middle of her ribcage when one of them smiled at her just right. But those smiles never showed themselves when packs of mean girls were nearby and eventually it became easier to just to ignore all of them, lifting her chin up and counting the hours of each day down so she could get home to her sketchbooks and the flowers in her father's workroom.

But SCAD was different. And so was Rosalie. There were certainly a fair crop of good-looking guys with the added benefit that most of them were art geeks, too; technically at least. In many ways, that technicality helped her get beyond some of the apprehension she had about the opposite sex. That and the fact that Vera was so attached to her boyfriend, who was attending nearby AASU. Her third wheel status was getting overly tiresome, so she decided to give it a chance for all of their sakes.

She met Roy King at a party the last week of junior year. He was a senior, getting ready to graduate from the sculpture program. He and his friends arrived at the same time she and Vera did. Very smoothly, he held his friends back and the door open so the two of them could enter first. "Ladies," he said with a sweep of his arm as he took in the full length of Rosalie's body. Then directly to her, "Hey," with an expression that was meant to send shivers up her spine and make her swoon.

Vera giggled and elbowed Rosalie hard in the ribs after they made their way to the keg. "Did you see that sexy smirk he just gave you? Gi-irrrl..." Rosalie had and wasn't quite sure what to make of it. He was cute for sure. Taller than her in her heels, with dark-brown hair and looks that had most of the girls at the party panting. But she hadn't felt anything in her ribcage, except maybe a little queasiness when he was checking her out. Certainly no zipping chill.

She felt his eyes on her most of the evening and the few times they had made eye contact he grinned broadly at her, his friends chuckling around him. Rosalie smiled politely back, but made no move to talk to him or encourage him to talk to her.

Late in the evening she stood on the deck alone refilling Vera's Solo cup at the keg. When she turned to go back inside Roy was standing in the sliding glass door casually leaning on his forearm. "Hey again," he smirked. The same cool look he had given her at the front door dancing across his face, this time steeped in alcohol.

"Hi," Rosalie said quickly, dropping her eyes to her shoes and back up again. Something felt off. The room behind him was empty, even though she could still hear the party carrying on inside the apartment.

"I like your shoes," Roy said, strolling forward.

"Um, thanks?" she said, taking a step back but widening her stance.

"In fact, I like this whole outfit," he said, emphasizing the T at the end. "Jeans and heels. Nice."

Rosalie forced a smile, but went immediately cold when he reached up and dragged his finger across the top of her collar bone and down her arm. Her mouth dropped open in shock as he whispered, "This top does great things for your tits."

Before she could breathe, step away, do _anything_, he moved his fingers from her wrist to low on her waist, then quickly slipped the flat of his hand around to grab her ass and pull her roughly toward him. The beer in the Solo cup sloshed messily over the front of her top as Roy pressed himself up against her. Cold beer slipped down over her stomach, soaking into the top of her jeans and underwear.

All of the air in her lungs pushed up in her chest and the beer and pizza she had consumed throughout the night dropped low and heavy in her stomach. She felt immobilized, sure that any second another party goer would walk out onto the deck and this would stop. But when instead, seconds later, Roy was digging his fingers into the top of her sleeveless halter and rubbing his hard-on against her pelvis, she realized that that was not going to happen.

"Stop," she croaked, dropping the Solo cup and pushing at his chest.

"Ohh, don't be like that," he drunkenly hummed into her neck as he nipped at her and pushed her up against the deck rail. "We're just having fun."

He skimmed his hand further—between her legs—pushing his fingers up against her sex. _God_, she screamed inside. _Oh my God._But on the outside no words came; just a high-pitched hum and heavy ragged breaths as she squirmed, trying to get away.

He pulled sharply down on the edge of her top and she heard the fabric tear. "Ohhh, I knew they'd be beautiful," he sighed, grabbing harshly at her breast, pinching and tugging at it. He pulled back and looked at her with cold, dark eyes. "You don't disappoint, do you?" he asked, crashing hard against her mouth, biting at her lips and forcing his tongue inside.

As Roy writhed against her, Rosalie heard nothing. Nothing but rushing silence and his sloppy grunting movements against her mouth. Her breast burned against his hand—chapped and scratchy from his sculpture work—and pinching pain radiated from the delicate skin over her pubic bone as he rubbed his length roughly against her. Then... then she heard quiet snickering. Her eyes snapped open and she saw two of his friends standing in the doorway watching as Roy assaulted her.

"Oh yeah, baby. You know you want it," rang in her ears like every bad made-for-TV movie she had ever seen and she suddenly felt all the air return to her chest. _No!_ she screamed inside. _No! This is not going to happen to me. _She bit down angrily on Roy's tongue, bringing her knee up hard between his legs at the same time.

He dropped like a stone. He actually did.

"Fuck!" he groaned. "You fucking bitch." She looked down at him rocking from side-to-side in a puddle of beer on the deck below her, one hand at his bleeding mouth, the other cupping his balls. His handsome face was twisted in pain and anger. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes.

"No," she hissed. "You're the fucking bitch." And she stepped over him, pulling her ripped shirt up to cover her chest.

His shocked friends backed quickly into the apartment and away from her as she came toward them, wiping Roy's blood from her mouth. The two other friends that had clearly been keeping people from coming into the room gaped as she pushed past them.

The whole party went silent when she stepped back into the living room.

"Rosalie!" Vera screamed frantically. "What the hell?"

-:-

The last week of school went by in a blur. Interviews and physical exams. Her parents and Vera buzzing around her like insects. They packed her up in her car and her father drove her home while her mother followed. He only spoke to her about logistical details during the drive. "Are you hungry? Are you thirsty? Do you need to stop and use the restroom?" Rosalie dozed or stared out the window the entire ride, only answering with yeses or nos.

Once home again, she spent most days of that first month above the shop, not in it. Her room littered with sketches of moonwort, for forgetfulness. But by the end of the summer she was more like the old Rosalie again. At least on the outside. Her clothes and makeup were back in place and she even laughed sometimes. She worked the register for her mother and trimmed thorns off of roses for her father. But she made no arrangements and offered no advice on the floral combinations he made.

When she returned to the apartment with Vera in the fall she did her best to keep up the appearance of normality. Vera quickly caught on though and didn't push her to go to bars or parties. They sometimes spent quiet evenings at home with their friends, but mostly Rosalie threw herself into work, classes and academic activities. Her floriography book stayed on her nightstand and her sketch book was filled with Aspen trees.

When the dean of SCAD came to pull her out of Professor Varner's last Children's Book Illustration class at the end of her senior year, she had no idea that aloe, harebell and adonis would dominate her sketchbooks for years to come.

Standing in the hallway with one of the school's mental health counselors, he told her. In the fucking hall.

"Your parents' car... "  
>"I'm so unbelievably sorry..."<br>"Coastal fog, they said..."  
>"I'm so, so sorry..."<br>"I've looked at your grades..."  
>"You, of course, won't need to take exams..."<p>

Rosalie stared down at her spectator pumps, while their words washed over her.

They had been driving to Savannah for graduation. To help pack up her apartment. To celebrate. To caravan home together.

Now, she would be going home alone.

-:::::-

"So, you've thought about it right?" Alice blinked at Rosalie intently as they stood outside Cullen's Corner Market.

Rosalie regarded her openly; surprised how beguiling this little, tattooed girl was. She felt something crackle within her carefully maintained reserve and sighed.

"Yes... A lot actually."

"I knew I was right!"

"You seem to be right a lot," Rosalie smiled.

"Well... about some things," Alice said with more of a serious tone than Rosalie had expected. They both drifted off for a breath before she added, "So, why haven't you?"

Rosalie drew in a deep breath through her nose only to let it out immediately. It vibrated noisily over her lips. It was very un-Rosalie and it made her smile. "So many reasons."

"You could start with something small."

Alice had no idea how right she was. "That might be the way to do it."

**So, the plan for now is once a week. I'm a bit ahead already so I'm hoping I can stick to that. I've got a pretty stressful job and a whole other life with a husband and kid, so I won't promise there won't ever be delays. I'll do my best to avoid them.**

**If you remember writing your first fic you can remember how nerve wracking this is. Thanks for reading! Reviews would be awesome, but I won't hold my breath.**


	2. Chapter Two::Gooseberry::Anticipation

**Wow! What a whirlwind! Thank you so, so much to everyone for your encouraging words and interest. Reviews! Alerts! Craziness!**

**Some things to share:**

**Zaza724 has pulled me completely under. I now have fic twitter. I'm dreamnorweigen. And I started a tumbler for this story: markedindelibly[dot]tumblr[dot]com. There are photos of the flowers I mentioned in the last chapter and this one, in case you're interested. I will continue to update that as I go along.**

**Also, Zaza found an inconsistency in the last chapter. The tattoo that Esme has is now from 1991. Not 1973. When I first started writing this I was considering a different timeline. I tried to figure out if there was a way to make it work but finally decided to go back and change the date. **

**Finally, thank you to my readers Zaza, winterstale and RillaotValley. I'm not fibbing when I tell you people, I was blocked. For years. The damn has burst and these women are keeping up with me. Now, that said, this technical edit is mine. So, don't blame them for my lack of commas! **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two::Gooseberry::Anticipation<strong>

Alice bounced around the shop like a damn bug. Like one of those big-ass, brown crickets in the storage room, except she didn't scare the living shit out Emmett. She'd just pop up out of nowhere sometimes, and it could catch a person off guard.

She touched down lightly all over the place; never staying anywhere for long. Asking Edward, "Do you need goo?" Asking Garrett, "Esquivel or Johnny Cash?" Asking a customer, "Do you want a cool cloth? A Mountain Dew?" She never asked Emmett what he wanted, knowing he'd tell her exactly what he needed, exactly when he needed it.

The only time Alice sat absolutely still was when she had the swine to practice on, or when Emmett gave in and let her shadow him. She had the knack for it, though. Even if she was fucking all over the place. For a time—when she'd first started to work at Miss Pixie's—he wondered if she was on something. It didn't take long to learn there were no drugs involved. Just her morning caffeine. Otherwise, it was pure Alice.

She flitted from station to station making sure they were each fully-stocked before leaving to get the dinner order from the market down the street. Emmett pulled back from the piece he was finishing just as Alice put a fresh box of gloves on his cart. She looked at him pointedly and he nodded. Grinning, she stepped off to his side, settling into stillness and taking in the work and every word he said.

It was a fucking, flash hummingbird; straight off the wall in the front. It looked awesome, but it was exactly like the other two hummingbirds he'd tac-ed earlier in the month. Now, depressingly, there'd be three of them walking around town. Not that he could complain too much. Flash work kept him in business.

"How's that feel?" he asked, rubbing the excess ink and blood off the girl's shoulder blade.

"It hurts a little, but it's not too bad."

"That's what she said," Edward chuckled lowly from one station over. The rest of the shop erupted in laughter and Emmett grinned, his dimples cutting deeply into his cheeks. Alice just rolled her eyes.

"How do _you_ feel?" he said as he helped the girl sit up.

"Okay, I think," she warbled. She looked a little woozy, but determined to stay cool. She'd been a cadaver the entire time, not saying a word.

"It looks hot, chica!" Alice piped in. "Super hot. Your boyfriend won't be able to get enough of taking care of you, knowing that you did this for _him_."

The girl's cheeks pinked and Alice stepped in to take her elbow and help her stand. She seemed to have perked up a bit, now that her blood was flowing again and her mind was clearly on how her man would react. Alice did have a way with the customers. She always knew exactly what to say to get the sale. Exactly what to say to soothe people's nerves. It didn't matter if they were waify chicks like this one or big macho fuckers that cried silently (or loudly) into the crooks of their elbows.

"Come on, let's go check it out in the mirror." Grabbing the waif's hand and swinging it playfully, Alice led her across the room. "Then I'll get you some goo and a wrap and we can go get your aftercare sheet." The girl nodded, walking gingerly along with Alice toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror. Emmett smiled gratefully at her when she looked back at him. She knew how to clear a station too, without making the customer feel like they were being rushed.

"Oh, I love it," the waif squeaked as she looked at the reflection of her back in the hand mirror that Alice had given her. "It's perfect," she said turning back to Emmett. "Thank you."

He nodded with a smile and started to clean up, snapping his black, surgical gloves off and tossing them into the trash with the inked and bloody towels. "Be sure to follow those directions she's gonna give you to a tee. Aftercare is really important."

"That's what..."

"Shut it, Edward." Then back to the waif, "I'm serious. Have your man read the sheet, too. You being on top of it _with_ him will help ensure you don't get an infection."

"That's..."

"Edward!" Emmett growled. "Enough."

"Oh, Come. On. You're just serving 'em up, Em."

Emmett stood, stretching his long legs and arms after two hours in the stool. He rubbed and shifted his jaw, relieving the muscle tension that had built up from clenching and grinding his teeth. Edward ducked his head and redoubled his attention on his client. Walking toward the mirror, Emment nodded to Alice and she slipped quietly away to the front.

Standing over the girl, he dug his fingers deep into the muscles at the base of his neck and rolled his head forward and side-to-side. Her mind had clearly moved on to how the rest of her evening would go and her smile looked mischievous and horny. When Emmett caught her eye in the mirror she blushed. Deeply.

With a knowing smile, he clinically applied ointment to her shoulder and then cut a bandage to fit. "Take this off after about an hour. When you're home. No more than two. All wounds need to breathe. Keep it clean but be gentle when you wash. Don't scrub for at least two weeks. The sheet will tell you everything you need to know." The waif nodded, watching his ministrations over her shoulder.

When he was done Emmett deftly guided her to the reception area where Alice waited with the usual bag of aftercare instructions, trial-size bottle of lotion and Miss Pixie's bumper sticker. "Don't forget to come back and see us when you're ready for your second," he grinned, flashing those ridiculous dimples that he'd learned for some reason seemed to leave women weak. Winking, he turned toward the back, leaving the waif a little breathless, despite what she might have been thinking about doing to her boyfriend just moments before.

-:-

"Just to confirm: Two veggie subs and a spicy Italian, right? A Sprite, a Vitaminwater and a ginger ale." Alice recited back their dinner orders as she swung her messenger bag over her shoulder and walked toward the front. "Oh, and another big bag of Cheetos," she grinned. "We're running low."

"Affirmative, Small One," Edward barked, saluting her.

She stuck her tongue out at him, flicking her piercing on her front teeth. Turning to Emmett as she pushed the door open, she said, "Can we find some time to work on the pig tomorrow, Em?"

"Maybe."

Pulling food delivery, providing janitorial services and stocking station carts was part of the grunt duty that Alice was obligated to do as an apprentice. His weekend receptionist, Heidi, had made it clear that _shit like that _was a non-starter for her. And he let it slide because her big boobs and small clothes pulled in the fish on a slow Saturday or Sunday. Besides, he was more than happy to make Edward sweep when he had to.

If Alice were a guy, they would have thought nothing of calling her _The Bitch_. "Hop to it, Bitch," Edward used to say to the last guy. But with Alice, that just seem wrong. Because she wasn't. She was the apprentice. And she was the best he'd ever had.

If it meant extra time on the swine, shadowing or time he'd spend critiquing her sketchbook, she'd probably clean the bathroom, too. The girl was mad driven, for sure. And that can-do attitude coupled with the magic ways she had with the customers made him feel guilty when he wasn't giving her everything he felt she was earning.

"We'll take a look at the schedule in the morning and see if we can squeeze it in," he said. Even as the words were leaving his mouth Emmett could see Edward lifting his eyes from the cuff he was working on; a wicked grin plastered on his face. It was like slow motion and Emmett could feel his own smile creeping in, as well. Sometimes he just couldn't help it.

"That's what she said!" Edward rumbled as both Emmett and Garrett laughed. Because, well, that shit _was_ funny. And they couldn't help but give the girl a hard time. Only because she could take it. And only because, on a good day, she could give it right back.

"That's what _she_ said?" Alice simpered, annoyed.

"Now you're gettin' it, girl," Edward whooped. He stopped working for a moment, leaning back on his stool, his lips curling into a baiting, crooked smile. Those two were at it constantly. Like a brother and a sister of another mother and a mister. It was funny. But it could wear on you, too.

"That's what _HE_ said," she shot back.

Garrett looked up and the shop was void of the constant buzzing of the tattoo machines. "You better watch yourself there, Edward," Garrett said shifting in his chair and starting the buzz of the iron again. "I think she gotcha."

"Not even," Edward grumped as Alice did a little wicked dance toward the door.

"Okay, okay," Emmett chuckled, shaking his head.

Alice caught his eye and did a subtle backward nod with her head, sliding off the concrete step onto the sidewalk, _just _as the florist from down the street walked by. "I'll be back in a few." Pumping her eyebrows at Emmett, she left the door to swing shut as she took off down the street after the florist at a faux, leisurely pace.

He shook his head again as he watched her go. She'd already explained to all of them her theory that the flower girl was closeted. Not gay, like lesbian-gay, but that she had tattoos that she hid. Lately, though, she'd been really quiet on that front.

She had a running list of neighborhood characters that she'd tagged as likely next customers. She gave regular updates on each of them:

"I think Mrs. Cope will be in within the week to get her eyebrows inked."

"That Tyler kid has been casing the shop again. He's got the itch."

But there'd been nothing about the florist since Alice followed her down the street the previous week.

Emmett acknowledged Alice's uncanny ability to ferret out closet cases and newbies, but he remained unconvinced about the florist. Sure, she had that pinup look. And he had many regular clients that ran in that scene; girls whose bright tattoos he himself had set down in the most strategic of places. But, as far as he could tell, that was the point with most of them. They tattooed and dressed themselves in order to be seen. In fact, he was pretty sure that some of them tattooed themselves in order to be seen by _him_ as he tattooed them; no matter how clearly he broadcast his _sorry, not interested_, signal.

From the little that Emmett had noted of the florist around the neighborhood—mostly when she was walking back and forth to the Cullen's market several evenings a week—she looked like a girl that enjoyed the fashion, but she didn't dress to be seen. She wore her clothes like armor. And he doubted she was marked.

Alice insisted that if she wasn't, she was going to be.

-:-

No appointments were scheduled during lunch or dinner time. This was Emmett's hard and fast rule. Sustenance was important. A hungry artist might get shaky hands. Even a short session could wear on them, leaving them scratching by the end. Emmett expected no less than 100 percent out of the people that tattooed at Miss Pixie's. When he said eat, they ate.

So, when Alice returned with the subs and drinks the shop was already clear of clients. She flipped the "Back in 30" sign in the window and dropped her messenger bag on the reception desk.

"Shit. I forgot the Cheetos."

"Don't worry yourself, girl," Garrett said, deftly spinning his wheelchair around her legs and managing to wag a finger in her face at the same time. "The dyes in those things can't be good for you."

"You don't see any irony in that?" she asked, with a sassy wink, sweeping her hand down the black and white ink of his full sleeve. Garrett tilted his head and made a series of facial expressions that said, _Maybe_. He grabbed his spicy Italian and ginger ale and smacked her butt before rolling to settle in next to the reception couch and eat his dinner.

"Edward! Did you know that Esme's got a..." Alice stopped short when both Garrett _and _Emmett shot her searing, hot looks that told her to, _Shut the fuck up_.

Edward strolled in from his station, grabbing his veggie sub from her. "Got what?"

"Got a... a shipment of Duke's Mayonnaise in?"

Edward raised an eyebrow and appraised the innocent look that Alice had plastered onto her face. "You are one weird chick." He dropped his sub on the desk and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the drawer, raising his eyebrow at her again.

"Yeah. Well. You love it."

"I do," he said, striding toward the door for his requisite pre-meal smoke. "I do."

Wide-eyed and facing away from Edward, Alice handed Emmett his veggie sub. He shook his head minutely and grabbed his Vitaminwater. Once the door closed both he and Garrett sighed openly.

"What?" Alice fumed.

"The tattoo right?" Emmett said, lowly. "That's what you were about to say?"

"Yeah, Esme showed me." Emmett eyed her skeptically.

"_She_ showed you, Alice?" Garrett said, wheeling closer.

"Well... I just... well..."

"Mmmhmmm," Emmett said, unwrapping his sandwich. "You guessed it, right? You pulled your little hocus pocus on her. Didn't you?" He took a bite of sandwich, staring Alice down. "Frankly, I'm surprised you sniffed that one out. Esme's way on the D.L."

Alice shrugged. "I just felt it... I was talking to Rosalie about if she had any and…" She dropped into the couch looking totally deflated. "Well, I was showing off."

"Rosalie?" Garrett asked.

"Right, 'The Florist.' She shops at Cullen's. I ran into her. She saw Esme's ink, too."

"Ahhh," Garrett crooned. "So 'The Florist' has a name."

Emmett held up his hand. "Look, no time for details now," he said glancing out at Edward, who was restlessly smoking his cigarette. "Just... don't talk to Edward about that. _Alistair._"

"But why? You... you gotta give me that at least."

"Alistair..." Emmett exhaled. "Alistair was his dad. Is. Was."

"His dad? But I thought Carlisle... What?"

"No." Emmett hissed, slicing his fingers sharply across his chest as Edward pushed his way back into the shop. "Not now," he mouthed.

Edward stopped to spray himself down with Febreze, sighing dramatically.

"Don't give me that shit, Edward," Emmett barked. "You're not ever bringing your stinky ass in here after sucking down one of those things."

"Ooooo," Alice howled, recovering nicely from the tension. "That's what HE said!"

Emmett threw his hands up, while the rest of them laughed. Children. Nothing but overgrown children. He really wasn't that much older than them, but sometimes they made him feel like a crotchety, old man. Ignoring the residual chuckles, he took another bite of his veggie sub.

He didn't even turn when the bell on the door rang, announcing the arrival of someone in the shop.

"Read. The. Sign. Thirty minutes for dinner makes for better tattoos," he all but growled through a mouthful of sandwich.

"Oh. Okay," a soft-tenored voice said as an abbreviated jingle sounded at the door again.

"No, no, no-no," Alice said in desperation, jumping up and pushing past him. "I invited her."

Emmett turned, and for the first time saw "The Florist" up close.

Alice could barely contain her glee as she announced, "Everyone. _This_ is Rosalie."

Until that moment Emmett hadn't realized how much all of them wiggled, peaked and raised their eyebrows at each other. Alice's face was the mirror of classic Magnum P.I. opening credits as she pulled Rosalie back into the shop. And both Edward and Garrett had contorted their foreheads into expressions that he had no hope of decoding.

Emmett felt an eyebrow dictionary might be in order. What were the looks on these three faces trying to convey? Those, in addition to Rosalie, whose brows were both raised in what he could only interpret as surprised horror?

"Uhhh... I'm sorry," he said, putting down his dinner and wiping his hands on his jeans. He swallowed the last bit of sandwich and it slid, hard and painful down his throat. Stepping forward he extended his large hand, his face contrite and ashamed. "Sorry. Really. Emmett McCarty."

After a beat, she looked up, directly into his eyes and slipped her slender, band-aid covered fingers into his. "Rosalie Hale."

If Emmett could whistle in his head that was certainly what he was doing. _What color are those eyes? Like the exact color of Periwinkle ink, or something?_ Yep. It definitely would be inappropriate to do it out loud. Of course, he'd seen her around, but only from a distance. And she was all of those things he'd notice from afar. The clothes. Nice underwear—he could see now—for sure. Up close, though, he could see that she was… real. Startlingly real.

She was a pin up girl. But a classic. Not Technicolor or a costume. Just easy, in her wide-legged pants and trim button down shirt. Tall, even in her flat canvas shoes. Her hair pulled back in a perfect ponytail, with a... what? A leaf stuck in it? A platinum Lauren Bacall.

He could see all this now, standing three feet from her, holding her hand as she nipped daintily at the inside of her upper lip. But up until this moment she was nothing more than "The Florist." A fellow merchant whose real estate he envied.

He'd always admired her shop. The architectural details. The big windows. The fresh white paint that was a fantastic backdrop for the flowers she displayed. It was all meticulously put together. Curated. Like a gallery, or a movie set.

He, on the other hand, had spent the last five years pulling Miss Pixie's together with eBay purchases and refurbished thrift store furniture. He'd found the couch that Garrett was sitting next to discarded in an alley down the block. It was only recently that the shop had been able to turn enough of a profit that he could afford to purchase new reclining hydraulic chairs for the customers and ergonomic stools for himself and Edward. Bad ergonomics could end a career. Repetitive motion injuries and poor posture had retired more people that he personally knew than he cared to think about.

All that left little over for investment in "decor", but that's where being art school grads came in handy. That and Edward's misspent youth writing graffiti. The result was a stripped down industrial space with bare concrete floors, raw brick and sick burners on the floor and walls. It was still what he thought _she _might consider a hole in the wall, but it was all him. And as much as he might appreciate original moldings and southern sun exposure, he liked what he'd built for himself from pretty much nothing.

Rosalie quietly cleared her throat, bringing Emmett back into the moment. "Wait, so 'Hale's?'" he said, still grasping her hand. _Idiot_, he thought. _Staring at her like a stoned circus bear_. "It's been you the whole time then? I noticed when the name changed, right after we opened up. But I thought you took over from someone else. Guess not?"

"No. I did." Her eyes slipped quickly down to her shoes and back up again. "From my parents. Six years ago."

"Ahhh, so..." But it was Emmett's turn to take heed of Alice's silent communication. She stiffened and her face opened up like she was waiting for something horrible to happen. _Shutupshutupshutup, _it said. "Ahhhh," he finished.

Awkward silence. The look on Rosalie's face shifted from pain, to one of confusion and maybe concern in a matter of seconds. And somehow she managed to wedge a minute, uncomfortable smile in the middle of all of that. It made Emmett feel like shit. _What was that about, girl? I'm sorry._ He looked desperately to Alice and then loosened his grip on Rosalie's hand, pulling his fingers into the nest of her palm and squeezing lightly before letting go.

"I did change the name to Floriography," she said, lifting her chin, her lips settling into a perfect close-lipped smile.

"Yeah. Cool name," Edward mumbled through a mouthful of sub. "The language of flowers. We use that shi... I mean stuff, too. More Japanese than Victorian, though."

Emmett watched, bemused, while Edward spoke, crumbs flying out of his mouth. "What?" he finally snapped when no one else jumped in. "It's important. Nothing worse than tattooing a flower combo on your back that says you're an asshole."

More silence before Rosalie spoke. "True enough," she said with a smirk. "True. Enough."

Each of them successively broke into peals of laughter. Alice in near tears. Emmett stood incredulously admiring the florist. He could feel those damn dimples deepening.

_Rosalie Hale_, he thought. _Shit. I'm in trouble._

* * *

><p><strong>Well? What did you think of that? Next update we'll learn what Rosalie did.<strong>

**So, some things have changed in the last week. I know I said I'd post once a week on Wednesdays. I was new and starry eyed. Forgive me. Let's make it every 10 days, or so. I'm not as far along with chapter three as I'd like and I've got a busy seven days ahead of me. **

**Also, I said that reviews would be awesome, but I wouldn't hold my breath. I lied. I'm holding my breath. Turning blue as I type this. Please show InkEmm some love! **


	3. Chapter Three::Black Poplar::Courage

Premature publishing on my part. Sorry if you missed these notes when you got your alert.

As always, I own nothing but the story.

Thanks to my readers Zaza724, winterstale and RillaotValley. I'm not sure the technicalities of what a Beta is, but these women keep me sane.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3::Black Poplar::Courage<strong>

So. Miss Pixie was a stuffed dog. A blond, French bulldog it looked like. A real. Stuffed. Dog.

She sat stoically on the reception desk, attached to a pedestal of sorts; a small plaque at her feet:

Miss Pixie

1998

A boy's best friend.

It seemed the best place for Rosalie to focus her attention. After the laughter died down and they were left to awkwardly look at each other, she went for her old standby: _deflect, deflect, deflect._

Ignoring the lingering, surprise of a cool chill that spread across her ribcage when he took her hand, she stepped around Emmett and over to the desk. Reaching up she lightly touched the black poplar leaf she had tucked into her ponytail before deciding to take Alice up on her invitation.

_He is handsome. And he has a bit of "den mother" in him. But… _

It had been a while since she had tucked flowers in her hair; though, it had also been a while since she had spent time with anyone other than her customers or the vendors at the flower market. Vera visited once or twice a year, but Rosalie didn't need floriography with her. Now, standing amongst strangers, on purpose, for the first time in a long time, she was glad of the little, green piece of courage she'd woven between the strands of her hair. And even more, because Emmett and his dark hair and blue eyes had managed to blow a fuse in her security sensors.

She placed her hand on the dog's head. Miss Pixie looked bored. Rosalie was anything but. She felt anxious, but edged with excitement...

_Push it down, push it down. _"You stuffed your dog?"

Maybe he was unlikeable... if he _stuffed his_ _dog_. Maybe she wouldn't need to worry about this: feeling like an insect, being drawn in by the Venus Flytrap. The pull was one she couldn't ignore, but so was the feeling she had at the base of her spine… low-grade fear. She left her hand on Miss P's soft little neck and turned to look at Emmett.

He wore a look of amused shame, a dimple blooming in his left cheek. It made Rosalie smile; something new building in her stomach. Not a chill exactly. _But, you wouldn't stand a chance..._ She cleared her face and raised her eyebrows in inquiry.

Before Emmett could speak, Edward piped in. "His _mother_ stuffed his dog."

She backed away as Emmett stepped forward and put one, surprisingly graceful finger on the bridge of Miss Pixie's nose. He pursed his lips in annoyance at Edward, who shrugged and continued to eat.

"She's been gone awhile," Emmett said rubbing the dog's nose. "She died my senior year in high school."

Rosalie looked back at the plaque. 1998. _That would make him... 32?_

"My mom decided to do it. I would never have done this to her."

"But you _did_ keep her," Alice pointed out.

"Right. I know it's weird. But, I couldn't imagine what to do with her … with her eyes open like that..." He rubbed Miss Pixie's ear and dropped his forearm to the counter. "She was a good dog. The best."

"Yes, she was," Garrett said, fidgeting a bit with the wheels on his chair.

Rosalie, saw the look that passed between the two men—pain, old pain—and it felt familiar. Without warning, the tension that had been locked high in her chest since she walked through the door dissipated.

_-_:::::-_-_

_Marigold::__Pain and Grief  
><em>_Raspberry::Remorse_

-::-

Rehab was hard. Emmett hadn't understood that stretching and lifting baby weights could be even more painful than the accident. But it was. It made him cry.

Even the accident hadn't made him cry. It had made him numb.

The bastard therapist wouldn't let up either. So, Emmett leaked quiet tears every day while Felix put him through his paces. Fucker. They hadn't even started with walking. He couldn't imagine the tears that would come with that.

But, he would walk soon enough. _He_ would.

He hadn't seen Garrett since they'd gotten in the car. Since Garrett had taken the keys, insisting that he was the better of the two of them to drive. His mother told him that was more than seven weeks before he'd woken up. That had seemed impossible. Four weeks later, it still did.

What followed the coma was a total mindfuck. Part of his life was missing. Almost two months, just gone. Wiped from his existence. He'd passed out from heatstroke during football practice once, when he was fifteen. His teammates had moved him into the shade and he came to with a cold pack under his neck and some cheerleaders and the trainer fussing over him. Those five lost minutes messed with him for days. There was no comparing that to what he felt after the accident. It felt like vertigo.

When he got into that car with Garrett and Miss Pixie he was eighteen. He'd just graduated. Summer stretched out ahead of them and it would be nothing but a celebration before they all headed off to art school together in the fall.

When he woke up he was nineteen. His left leg was shattered. So were his ribs. And he was covered... covered in stitches. He wasn't going to art school. Miss Pixie was dead. And his best friend would be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. His mind felt like it was on a delay.

Of course, it didn't feel like that to anyone around him. To them, it was seven weeks of torture. Of constant waiting. Of anxiety. When he opened his eyes, they felt relief and they could all finally breathe again. He only felt the fear and oppression of the unknown closing in.

-:::::-

"So, your mom stuffed Miss Pixie behind your back?" Edward made air quotes when he said _stuffed_.

"Why are you telling this story?" Emmett asked, quizzically.

"Why aren't you?" Edward shot right back. Emmett glared at him and Rosalie's stomach dropped a little. She would never want to be on the other end of that look.

"Because..." Emmett said, looking uncomfortably at her. "Because it's intensely personal and no offense to our guest here, but…" Emmett rubbed his forehead, shifting his eyes quickly between the two of them. Rosalie felt as uncomfortable as he looked, but not for herself. For _him_. She smiled awkwardly and something in him eased a little when he smiled back. "I'm..." But Rosalie held up her hand and cut him off.

"Don't worry about it. I get it. You don't know me. At all," she laughed. "We can wait until later to tell our sad stories." She drew a tiny bite of air and wrinkled her brow. She had not meant to say that. _How very Jerry Maguire of you, Rosalie_, she groaned internally. "And, since we're sharing, I'm not usually this social. Alice has bewitched me, or something."

Garrett chuckled. "She has that effect." Alice rolled her eyes.

"Yes, well... It really was nice to meet all of you," Rosalie said, looking each of them in the eye. "I guess four years was long enough. But, I better get home. I've got a really early morning tomorrow at the flower market," she said, making to walk toward the door. Emmett shifted to move out of her way, only to step directly in front of her. They collided softly, her hand pressed to his chest; his on her arm to steady her.

On instinct, Rosalie stiffened, but his grip was gentle and, uncharacteristically, she relaxed. His height, broad muscular chest and the tattoos that strung down his arms: she took them in quickly, her eyes flitting over him. On the arm that held her was a gnarled and twisted tree. Black and grey. Roots threaded around his wrist, thick trunk and twisted branches reaching up and under the rolled-up sleeve of his plaid shirt. Just under the edge of the sleeve she could see the spade-like shapes of poplar leaves peeking out—exactly like the one she had tucked into her hair. _Courage?_ she thought looking up into his dark blue eyes. Her scalp tingled but the anxiety she had expected wasn't there. Instead, she was soothed by the smell of good bread and marinated vegetables on his breath. And, the smell of _him_: clean, almost like bleach, but the hard, astringent edge was softened with the smell of soap and fresh sweat.

Then, there it was. That zip. She hadn't felt that since Professor Varner in college. It skipped up from her stomach and radiated out through her ribs. Emmett smiled, the skin around his eyes creasing, warmth rolling off of him. It made her want to curl under his arm and rest her head on his chest. _Rosalie Hale? What is wrong with you?_

"Oh, my," Rosalie mumbled. "Thanks." Lightly, she pushed away, but he left his hand on her arm for a moment longer, squeezing gently. She looked again at the tree tattoo. Heat streaked over the apples of her cheeks, only to cool immediately as she stood back from him. Goose bumps erupted everywhere, quickly accompanied by an unfortunate stomach churning.

"The flower market?" Alice asked, snapping Rosalie out of distraction. "Oooo, I've always wondered about that."

"Well," Rosalie said, smoothing her shirt and the front of her pants. "You're welcome to join me. My delivery guy, Tyler, is sick. He's usually my muscle..."

Edward coughed violently, half-laughing, and dropped his sandwich to grab his drink. He was red and groaning. The look that passed from Emmett to him was deadly.

"...so, I'm on my own this week," Rosalie continued, shooting Edward a perplexed look. She looked everywhere, in fact, but back at Emmett. "It is an early morning. A twenty-minute drive and it opens at 5:30. A.M." Alice's eyes widened. "Definitely not for the faint of heart," Rosalie smirked, fully recovered.

"No. I... I want to go. I'll meet you at your shop at five? Whew." She blew a surprise puff of air out of her mouth, as if even she couldn't believe she had agreed to the plan. "I'll bring coffee. And, my sketchbook."

"Sounds great," Rosalie said, with one last glance at Emmett, before slipping quietly out the door and into the dusk. "Good night, everyone."

-:::::-

_Cypress::Death_

_Poppy::Oblivion_

_-::-_

The idea of facing Garrett made Emmett puke. Not just want to puke. But puke. Violently. And then the pain of puking—of his muscles seizing as he vomited—made it start all over again. It was a nasty, brutal cycle, but it made it easy to find a reason to not get in the elevator and go down the three floors to Garrett's room.

After pitiful coaxing, angry browbeating and, finally, physical enforcement, Emmett's mother made him face Garrett; pushing the wheelchair of her son, who was easily twice her size, to the elevator and right into Garrett's room.

When they were faced with each other, Emmett couldn't look his friend in the eye. He looked at his forehead or his ear. Once, he managed to look at his eyebrow. _Pathetic_, he screamed inside. _Fucking asshole._ But what was worse? He knew that Garrett could tell he was avoiding him. It only made him dodge his eyes more, which, in turn, made it impossible not to take in the rest of him.

Garrett looked half his size. His body was atrophying before everyone's eyes; his muscular, midfielder legs, now wasted away. But, he was smiling. A sickening, grateful smile. It was the source of the only thing that Emmett had felt other than physical pain since he'd woken up, and it was unbearable. Garrett laying in the bed. Fully animated from the waist up—actually, looking no worse for wear—but dead from the waist down. Garrett acting like it was great to be alive. So happy to see Emmett. So happy _he _was okay. Garrett putting a positive spin on every angle of the fucked up situation.

Emmett tried to say: I should have been driving. If I had been driving; it would be me where you are. Me, with my nineteen-year old muscles wasting away. Me, with my bleak future ahead. Not you.

But Emmett said nothing.

-:-

When Emmett was finally released from the hospital, everything felt too bright. Too fast. Too much.

Rehabilitation and the extended stay had eaten heavily into the money his mother had set aside for his first-year expenses at SCAD. She tried to explain that a year delay wouldn't seem that bad. That in a year, he and Garrett could still go together, just like they'd planned before.

But nothing would be like it was before and Emmett had no intention of going to school. He didn't tell her that. Instead, he popped a painkiller and let her hopeful prattle wash over him like water.

He hobbled into his bedroom, which looked small and childish after the harsh sterility of the hospital, and his eyes immediately fell on what sat on his desk. The last thing he expected to see. Ever. Ever again.

Sobs—his first real tears, other than out of physical pain—erupted from him. "What? Whatthefuck, Mom?" His chest seized violently, painfully against his still knitting ribs. He dropped heavily onto the bed. "Why?"

"What, baby?" His mother asked coming into the room with his duffel bag. "Oh..." she trailed off. "I... I should have warned you. I meant to tell you."

Emmett looked at her, disbelieving; his face wet and snot dripping from his nose. "Tell me? Tell me? Why... why did you _do _that to her? Why would you _ever _do that do her?" Emmett pushed up on his crutches and limped over to his desk.

Miss Pixie

1998

A boy's best friend.

"You were unconscious. I didn't know when you would wake up, baby—_if_ you would. I couldn't just put her... I couldn't." She walked up to him, slowly dropping the duffel to the floor. "I couldn't bury her without you. You'd have never seen her again. I didn't know how long it would take. I didn't know..." Cautiously, she slid her hand across his lower back. "Barbara, at work, knew someone," she whispered. "I didn't know what to do."

Emmett nodded and lifted an arm around his mother's shoulders, while using the other to wipe under his nose and across his face. They both stared at Miss Pixie, fresh tears falling. Mourning what used to be.

When his mother left his room, Emmett took another painkiller. It didn't just take the edge off. It flattened the edge into submission. The pain of the day. Moving out of wheelchairs and into cars. Climbing stairs. Miss Pixie. It all just ebbed to the edges. He lay down on his bed, staring blankly at the screen-print poster he'd made in art class that hung on his wall. PEACE. The green and magenta of the ink letters and giant symbol vibrated against the blue background. Emmett closed his eyes and opened them again, deliberately trying to focus. PEACE. But, it was no use. The colors slowly bled to brown and he passed out. It was the most uninterrupted sleep he'd had since he came to in the hospital. It was a revelation.

In the morning, he told his mother that he couldn't find the prescription they had filled at the hospital. She searched his duffel and then the car and, when she couldn't find the bottle either, she gladly explained to the doctor and had it refilled. It was easy after that.

In the days and weeks that followed, Emmett slipped into the habit of dosing himself on painkillers and sleeping the day away. When his cushion of extra pills started to run low he added in a little alcohol. Not too much, just enough to amplify the anesthetized feeling that was getting him through.

He slept. He went to rehab. He ate, when forced.

He didn't visit Garrett. Or return his calls. No matter how much his mother begged and demanded. He was an asshole. The weeks turned to months until nearly the whole year was behind him.

Old teammates and friends came by every once-in-a-while but he rarely left the house. He felt like an animal in the zoo. They came to gawk and leave with fodder for the gossip mill. Some of them were at the local colleges. Some were still figuring it out. All of them were moving on around him. Emmett stood still.

Marcus, who had always been on the periphery of his and Garrett's group, came around more and more. Emmett found that he could help him fill the gap when the painkillers were running low. He'd never done drugs before, just like he'd never hung with Marcus and his crew. But after he'd tagged along with some of his old teammates one day, Marcus whispered that he could hook him up if he was interested.

Emmett started slipping small bills out of his mother purse and dresser drawer. Not enough that she would notice, but enough that it would add up to what he needed the next time Marcus came around.

Eventually, the crowd of sympathetic friends dwindled to just Marcus and a few skanky girls he liked to hang with. Sometimes they brought weed, sometimes it was little sandwich bags filled with nondescript pills. They'd get high and sit around. The girls would dance and Marcus would laugh and make out with them. Sometimes one of them would make out with Emmett. Or make out _on_ him was more like it. Either way, Emmett didn't really care. Well, he cared just enough to keep people out of the house when his mother might be coming home and to not smoke anywhere she might catch a whiff of it. He cared just enough to get whatever it was into his system so he could stop caring about the rest of it. Stop caring about the now dull but constant pain in his leg. Stop caring about the whole fucked up mess he'd made.

But it didn't last. His mother came home unexpectedly at lunch one day. One of the girls Marcus had brought with him was on the toilet and when his mother opened the door on her it scared the crap out of both of them. She took it cool enough, though. She was polite as could be, introducing herself and asking them their names. The girls giggled and demured, not used to being treated so nicely by boys' mothers. Marcus was polite, but he withdrew to the background, giving only one- or two-word responses to anything his mother asked. Emmett could see she was pissed. Her eyes were now fully open to what she had studiously been trying to ignore in the attempt to let him heal at his own pace.

After she left to return to work, Emmett told Marcus and the girls to go. He wasn't sure when he'd have them back, but it would be best if they stayed away for a while, at least.

When his mother came home that night, he was in bed again. "Emmett?" she called, dropping her keys and what sounded like a few grocery bags. "Emmett!" He could hear her loud mumbling and overly-aggressive, cabinet door opening and shutting; then, stomping up the stairs. His bedroom door swung open, slamming into the wall with a definitive thud.

"Enough. Up! Get up!" She whipped the covers off him and stood, managing to look like she was towering somehow, despite her height.

"Woah. Mom."

"I can't take this, Emmett." Her face was filled with a mixture of anger and fear. Fear of unspoken things. Things she likely had been stewing over since she left the house earlier in the day. "You look... sick. You don't eat. You're actually skinny. I didn't even think that was possible."

Emmett knew he was probably thirty pounds down from his peak weight when he'd played fullback. At 6'3", that was the kind of weight loss he could ill afford. The last time he looked in the mirror, he thought, _Dude, you look like shit._ Grey and slack skin. Dark circles around his eyes, despite how much of the day he spent sleeping.

"What have you done about your deferred enrollment at SCAD?" his mother demanded. "I asked you about that yesterday and last week. Have you called admissions?"

"No," he grumbled, not even attempting to make excuses. Garrett wanted to know, too, despite the fact that hadn't spoken in months. He had left messages on his cell phone saying he was enrolled for the fall. Emmett never called back.

"Emmett! ... Emmett." She sat down gently on the edge of the bed, dropping her elbows to her thighs, her face into her hands. "Where is my son?" She lifted her head and looked at him. Eyes pleading with him to show her something of the boy she remembered.

"Sweetheart. You're broken. I know. I can see that. I feel it," she said, bringing a hand to her chest. "All I want is for you to feel better. To see that… this horrible thing that happened... that it is not yours alone to carry." She paused, blinking. "I've waited. Hoping that enough time would pass that you'd..." She looked at him, eyebrows raised in expectation. But then, her expression fell and she looked away, out the bedroom door. She rested her hand on his foot, rubbing his arch lightly with her thumb. "Well, I'm done with this, Emmett. That boy, that was here earlier today? This," she said, sweeping her arm around the dark room and over him, "this ends now."

"Tomorrow, you look for a job." That made him sit up, his mouth open, ready to protest. "I don't want to hear it," she said holding up her finger. "You think school isn't for you right now? Well... I'm not happy about that. But I'll be damned if you're going to sit around here anymore, wasting away. Getting into God knows what."

She stood, taking a deep breath. "During the week, you will leave the house when I do. When I go to work, so do you. My suggestion is that you find a job quick, so you'll have somewhere to go. I'll be locking you out of the house until I get home."

"Wait. What?" But she just shook her head. This was not a negotiation.

She walked over to his desk and picked up Miss Pixie, tucking her under her arm. "And, I'm taking Miss P." Again, he started to protest, but she just shook her head. "Ah-ah, just for now. I think having her in here with you is too much of a reminder. You're not healing, Emmett. You're still raw and it's been almost a year." She pulled on the door, dislodging the handle from where it had embedded in the drywall. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I don't know what else to do," she said sadly and left the room.

He laid back down on the bed again, staring at the ceiling. He could hear his mother making a call from the kitchen. "Hi. Yes. I need my locks changed..."

-:::::-

Emmett strolled casually toward the front window and watched Rosalie take quick, light steps over the street toward her shop. When she reached the bright-green, side door, she pulled out a key and quickly disappeared inside. Less than thirty seconds later, the lights on the third floor of the building came on.

"She's really nice, right?" Alice said walking up next to him. Emmett nodded thoughtfully. He turned to look at her and she was smirking, her eyebrow and tiny hearts raised to a knowing peak. Again with the eyebrows.

"Yeah," Edward called, crumpling up the paper wrapping from his sandwich. "So, what's her deal?"

"Her deal?" Alice asked.

"Yeah. Like, she took over from her parents? Six years ago? I've never her seen her around with _parents_. Anybody, really. Where'd they go? Florida?"

"No... They died. Car crash. Before she graduated from art school."

"Aww, shit," Garrett said as he shared a pained glance with Emmett .

"Damn."

"Yeah. Esme said she's had a hard time of it. But, that she seems to be doing a ton better. The shop is doing really well. She struggled for a while. Lost a lot of her parents' regular clients. She just couldn't keep up with the demand and mourn at the same time. And, shit, she was just out of college. You know?" Alice looked at them each, almost daring them to contradict her. "Something changed, though. Four years ago. She changed the name of the shop and really turned things around. She's got big corporate clients now. Esme said she's even done flowers for the statehouse."

They all turned and watched the lights on the third floor; Rosalie's shadow casting on the ceiling as she moved around the apartment.

"Losing her parents, though. Damn." Garrett rolled up next to Alice and placed his hand on the back of her knee.

"Well..." It seemed as if Alice might say more, but then thought better of it. "Yeah."

"What? There something else? More dirt?" Edward said, needling.

"It's nothing. Or, nothing I should share." Emmett looked at Alice, curious. But, the worry on her face sent a chill down his spine.

"Oh, come on, Alice. Spill it," Edward pushed, playfully.

"No, Edward."

"Fine. I'll just get Esme to tell me," he said, grinning and rubbing his hands together.

"She won't."

"Oh, she'll tell me," he said, confident in his ability to charm anything out of his aunt.

"No, Edward. Some things aren't free game. Not everything is a 'that's-what-she-said' joke."

"Oh, well… I'm a dick, aren't I?" Edward asked sarcastically, to no one in particular.

"Sometimes, yes," Emmett answered seriously. "But don't worry. We know it's not deliberate."

Edward's eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open. He held another beat of silence before dropping his head in shame. "I'm sorry, man. Sometimes my mouth starts running... I do and say things that seem like a good idea at the time..."

"Look, I get it. We all do things we shouldn't. Just remember that we all have things we'd rather not talk about." Emmett paused, looking at Edward pointedly. It had its intended effect. Edward certainly had things he'd rather not talk about. "One of those things for me is Miss Pixie."

"But then why do you keep her here?" Regret flashed over Edward's face as soon as the words left his mouth, though the curiosity never left his eyes. He wanted to know.

Emmett sighed in frustration. God, this kid was annoying sometimes. "As a reminder."

* * *

><p>I hope you enjoyed that. It was incredibly difficult to write. And not because of the subject matter. I just struggled to get it out.<p>

I'll be back in two weeks. I hope to get a bit ahead, too.

Please check out Zaza724's story. We're on this crazy ride together and "Lucky Girl" can only make you smile. Sometimes it makes me giggle.

www . fanfiction . net/s/7897598/1/

I also now have fic twitter. I'm dreamnorweigen.

And I started a tumbler for this story: markedindelibly . tumblr . com. There are photos of the flowers I mentioned in the last chapter and this one, in case you're interested. I will continue to update that as I go along.

Reviews are like wine. My job has been incredibly stressful lately and every time I get a favorite, an alert or a review it makes me smile. Seriously.


	4. Chapter Four::Violet::Honesty Hanakatob

A/N: Long awaited by some… zaza724 and rillaotvalley being two. I could, okay, I will write a list of all the things that conspired against me: taxes; a computer that was singing its death song; a crazy, exhausting, passive aggressive coworker who just wore me out; pollen; three, yes THREE Easters. Oh, and taxes.

Zaza and Rilla are my readers and more accurately my sanity. They talked me through the blocks on this chapter while holding my hand and offering assassination techniques to deal with that bat-shit-crazy coworker. They rock.

Remember you can find pics and meanings of most of the flowers mentioned in this story on my tumblr: markedindelibly . tumblr . com. There's some cars and clothes and lyrics, too. Fluffy distractedness… Enjoy!

I still do not own Twilight or any of its characters.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four::Violet::Honesty (<em>Hanakatoba<em> Japanese Floriography)**

Chamomile::Energy in Adversity

Buckbean::Calm Repose

—::—

The soft strains from a harp drifted to the edge of Rosalie's consciousness. …_wake up… wake uuu-up…_

She turned the alarm off, quickly flipped the cool side of her pillow up and rolled back over, settling and hugging her favorite body pillow tightly. Her _boyfriend_, Vera called it, only half-joking. Truth be told, it was the only committed relationship Rosalie had ever had—and she was committed.

Fifteen minutes later, the _aahh-wooo-gahhh _of an old-timey car horn blared from the phone. _Okay. O.K. It's really time to get up. Alice will be downstairs in twenty minutes._

Rosalie hit snooze on the phone and swung her legs off the bed. The rest of her remained prone. She hugged her boyfriend tightly, sighing. The cats stood and switched on their motors. Stretching. Arching. Unhooking their jaws and yawning widely. Cam kneaded at Rosalie's hip and butt, while Buckbean, Chamomile's brother, clambered over her. He shoved his black and white face right up to Rosalie's and rubbed the edges of his thin pink and black lips along her jawline. _Good morning, lady. Feed us. Feed us, lady._

"Okay, okay," she said, her voice rough with sleep. "Let's go, kits."

Rosalie stood and the kittens slid clumsily to the floor, stretching and wobbling as they followed her to the kitchen. At three months old, their skinny short-haired bodies were still awkward, but they were certainly more self-sufficient than when she found them, tiny and wet, in the alley behind the shop. They wove in and out of her legs as she poured some cat food and put fresh water in their bowl. While they tucked in, she headed to the bathroom for her pre-flower market, morning toilette: teeth brushed, some water splashed on her face, moisturizer, and then a messy, finger-combed ponytail for her hair. No makeup for the flower market. She would do what she needed to do and hope to grab a quick nap before the shop opened at ten. She could shower and put on her face later.

The kittens were back in her room settling into the bed when she returned to put on her clothes. Her intention had never been to keep them—feeling like if she did, it would surely be her first step toward becoming the neighborhood cat lady. But after spending the evening with them—where they showed their appreciation of the warm, dry towels and can of tuna with purring that shook them all the way through—she unexpectedly found it hard to give them up.

Now, she was glad to have them. They depended on her. They had to be fed, looked after. They wanted, needed, love and attention. She could do that. She wasn't whiling her evenings away alone in the shop. Instead, she reveled in the energy they brought to her lonely apartment. Their constant scurrying and chasing made her smile. The knot of warmth on the bed when she woke unexpectedly in the night was a comfort. She could nudge their solid little bodies with her leg and they would purr for a few seconds before drifting off again. It made her feel less alone. It made it easier to fall back asleep.

"See you guys in a bit, 'kay?" They nudged her hand, purring. Yes, she talked to them. And yes, as if they might answer back. She smiled, wondering if the kits were actually improving on her underused conversation skills. If not for them, would she have said more than a few words to Alice the week before? Would she even be meeting her to go to the market? After all, she had to do more than her share to hold up her end of the conversation when talking to them. She goofily stuck her tongue out, rolling her eyes. _Ridiculous._ _You totally are a cat lady._

The cats circled one another on the bed searching for just the right spot. Bean went down first, curling up tightly and gently curling his freakishly, long tail over his eyes. Cam waited until he looked fully comfortable and then unceremoniously draped her sleek, blond body over him. _Almost the same color as Miss Pixie_, Rosalie thought, frowning. There was some more shifting and pushing, and then they were so twisted around each other that except for their coloring—black and white against blond—she wouldn't have been able tell them apart.

Her mind wandered back to Miss Pixie. And Emmett. The look he'd shared with Garrett. Did it have anything to do with Garrett being in that chair—that look? It felt so familiar, what she had seen pass between them—sort of hollow and crushing all at once—but it had passed quickly. She had seen nothing of that same pain when she looked into his eyes. Then again, she could have been distracted: by their color, deep blue with a shot of brown around the irises; by the soft, friendly creases that formed around them when he smiled down at her. Maybe it was the warmth of his hand, wrapped around her arm. Or, his smell. Or-

The _aahh-wooo-gahhh_ resounded loudly from her phone again. _Five minutes._ She took a deep breath and reached for the phone to turn it off. Bean opened one, perturbed eye. Cam was oblivious. Slipping on her shoes, Rosalie gave them each a light scratch on their heads. She grabbed her bag, checking to make sure it had her Moleskine notebook, her keys and some fruit and nut bars in it. She crossed the apartment, turning off all the lights and stepped out into the hall, pulling the door shut and locking it. When she hit the stairs she had a little pep in her step. She felt excited to see Alice and excited that she felt that way. A smile settled onto her face as she skipped down the steps. She didn't even pause to look at the door of the apartment on the second floor.

—::—

When Rosalie stepped out into the cool, morning air Alice was already leaning against the building, a tired but beaming smile overtaking her face. "I made Americanos. But... we can stop for some regular stuff at 7-Eleven, if you want," Alice said, making no attempt to contain her disdain.

"Oh, no. You are speaking my language," Rosalie said, taking the travel mug of coffee that Alice offered. "You have an espresso machine at home?"

"Not a machine. A stovetop _Bialetti_." Alice emphasized as she lifted the coffee to her mouth blowing into the hollow of the mouth hole before taking a sip. She swallowed and sighed, "Ahhhh."

"And you got up early enough to make these and get over here? I'm so glad we finally met." Rosalie smiled and took a slow sip herself. The acidic and earthy smell invaded every nook and cranny. _Yes. That is exactly right. Ahhhh._ She didn't say, but she normally would have stopped at 7-Eleven with Tyler. This was so much better.

Alice scoffed. "I'm just around the corner. It's not like I did anything more than roll out of bed." She swept her free hand dramatically up and down her body. "I totally slept in this," she smirked. "Seriously... I Cannot. Believe. I'm up this early." A wide-eyed, amused look lit up her delicate features.

Soft laughter passed between them. "Most people wouldn't be, by choice," Rosalie replied, blowing into the mug. A whole different energy coursed through her this morning. Normally, she felt so clumsy with people. Unless she was selling them flowers, she found it hard to know how to act. All through high school and early on in college it was much the same—until Vera arrived on the scene. In some ways, Alice reminded her of Vera. With no visible effort, she put Rosalie at ease. Her thoughts and feelings felt liquid. Words fell from her lips.

"Well..." Alice rolled her eyes. "You look perky, though," she observed. "And cute. Nice outfit. Clearly not your pajamas."

Rosalie scrunched her face, looking down at her typical flower market attire: a striped vintage sundress over denim capris, comfy espadrilles and a little jacket to stay warm in the cool warehouse. "I don't know about cute. But I better be perky. This _is_ how I make my living." Swallowing another sip of coffee, Alice rolled her eyes again. Rosalie turned toward the door of the shop. "Let's go in real quick. I need my orders sheet and I'll get you some gloves. We can get to the truck out the back."

Alice followed her into Floriography, taking in the dimly lit space: slate floors and crisp white built-ins. The only other colors in the shop were from the flowers themselves. "You know, I've never actually been in here."

"Oh?" Rosalie chuckled. "I'll try not to be offended." She ducked under the counter and Alice looked more closely at the refrigerated display case.

"It's not that I haven't thought about coming in. But there's not much that I would _need_ in here. Besides my take-home isn't much after I pay Emmett for my apprenticeship."

"You pay him?" A flash of indignation burned through Rosalie. She looked out the window and across the street to Miss Pixie's. _Wait. What kind of guy makes a girl pay _him _to work?_

"Oh, yeah. And I totally should," Alice said, holding up her hands. "It's like school. But better, really. It's real world. And hands-on. I'm learning from him what I need to know to make it on my own." Rosalie cooled, relieved. She didn't want to believe that Emmett would be that kind of guy: one that would take advantage of someone. But Alice's grin was genuine and aware, not the look of someone that had been duped. "He pays me as a receptionist and I pay him to teach me. Soon, he'll let me do more than work on the swine, though. I can just feel it."

"The swine?" Rosalie's screwed her face up in disgust. "I don't know that I want to know."

Again, Alice's grin eased her. "Sometimes he gets a cut from the butcher, with the skin still on, a leg or some trotters, and he lets me practice with the gun. I haven't done anything on a real person yet." She ducked her head sheepishly. "Well, not anyone else." She turned and held out her right wrist out. With her dark blue thumbnail, she pointed out a miniscule heart nested amongst the flaming feathers that spread down her arm. Rosalie had seen the body of what she guessed was a phoenix the night they had introduced themselves at the market. The heart was purple and imperfect.

Alice smiled crookedly at Rosalie. "That's why he makes me practice on the swine. I did that six months ago. I needed the practice."

Rosalie shrugged, pursing her lips. "I don't know much, but it couldn't be easy for anyone to tattoo themselves with a steady hand. I actually kind of like it. Perfect hearts aren't realistic." Rosalie winked and this time Alice shrugged. "But I guess it makes practical sense to practice on 'the swine.'" In a rather gross way, it restored the spark of regard for Emmett that had started to warm in Rosalie the previous night. Anyone that would make a special effort to buy pig parts just so this girl could practice couldn't be bad.

Alice turned back to the case. "This would make a beautiful tattoo."

Rosalie walked over to see what she was pointing at. "Hmph," she breathed, irritated. "That, on the other hand, makes no sense. I told the customer that ordered it that, but she wouldn't listen."

"What do you mean?"

Rosalie wrinkled her brow in answer. "Ranunculus, the pink one, means, 'You are radiant, I am dazzled by your charms.' The anemone, on the other hand, means, 'forsaken.' Together they create an incredibly confusing message."

Alice wrinkled her brow. "Still beautiful, though."

"I guess so," she sniffed, turning back toward the counter. "But, I wouldn't want it tattooed on me."

The arrangement was beautiful. Rosalie wouldn't deny it. The shock of the ranunculus' tight pink petals against the loose and deep indigo of the anemone. Lit like it was in the case, it was picture perfect; like it was meant to be. But the message, it was wrong and at the same time too right—almost as if the selection of those two flowers were meant especially for her: _I am drawn to you, but I cast you aside anyway._

The truth was that people generally baffled Rosalie. She rarely felt like she could predict what they would do or how they would act in relation to what she did. One of the few exceptions, of course, was in the shop. Her total confidence in the flowers, her designs and the floriography made all of that drop away. The shop was transactional. There was an expectation, and she knew exactly what it was. Outside of that though, she felt afloat, unable to command anything. Her only control was withdrawal.

For her birthday senior year, Rosalie's dad had sent her _Mimosa pudica_ seeds—the "touch-me-not" plant. It was just an exotic weed really, but touch sensitive plants had always fascinated them both. It was exactly the kind of gift that Robert Hale would find for his daughter. Perfect.

She had grown the plants in the kitchen window and once the fern-like leaves and pink, puffball flowers were big enough, she would stand there drinking her morning coffee and tickle the plant to watch it move. Just the lightest of touches and its leaves would fold inwards and droop.

One morning, Vera found her doing just that. She poured herself a cup and watched Rosalie until all the leaves were closed. "You're like that plant, you know," she said. "You draw people in, but if they get too close you close up on them."

"What do you mean, I draw people in?" Rosalie bristled.

Vera quickly realized her mistake. "No, no, sweetie. That's not what I meant. I don't mean you're a tease." She reached out and firmly squeezed Rosalie's shoulder. "I mean you're beautiful. And interesting. And… intriguing. People are _drawn_ to you. They want to know you. But, you shut down when they try. Guys especially."

Rosalie relaxed some, but was still confused. What did Vera expect? Did she mean she had always been like that? She had spent months going over those moments with Roy in her head. What had she done to make him do what he did? Had she smiled too much? Had too much to drink? Led him to believe she was interested? If she had paid more attention, been less relaxed, could she have avoided ending up alone with him? Falling victim to him?

Even with every moment cemented in her brain she still couldn't think of anything that would have forecasted the result. Without being able to accurately judge what people's expectations of her were, wasn't it just easier to hold back? Then there would be no room for misinterpretation. No chance of misstep.

"What _would _you want tattooed on you?" Alice asked.

Rosalie sighed, glad to be pulled away her brooding thoughts. "The truth is, I don't know. It's not something I would do lightly. Regardless of lasers and such, you do that and you're marking yourself forever."

Alice grunted, holding both of tattooed arms out, as if to say, _duh_. "You know, Emmett says something like that," she said, looking up at Rosalie, one eyebrow raised. "One of his tattoos says something like that."

"Oh?" Rosalie flushed. _Emmett. Emmett's tattoos._ She had seen the tree and knew that there had to be others. Somewhere. "Hmph... Come on. We better get going."

They wove their way through the workroom, past a small kitchenette and Rosalie's office. Everything was neatly organized, just the way she liked it. No plant or flower scraps were left lying around. She had separate cans for recycling, garbage and compostables. All of her tools, tapes and supplies were smartly stored away. Rosalie prayed to the altar of Martha Stewart. Everything had its place and she endeavored to make sure whatever 'it' was found its way its designated spot.

"I'm going to reset the alarm. Move quickly when I open the door, okay?"

"Gotcha," Alice said, inching one foot forward into a running stance. Rosalie chuckled, as she punched in the code and quickly pushed the door open. Alice rushed past into the alley and Rosalie stepped out behind her.

"You okay?" Rosalie laughed.

"Alarms freak me out. I'm terrified of the noise," Alice giggled nervously.

"Ah, they make me feel safe. I have the whole building alarmed."

"The whole building? You own the whole building?"

"Well, I... yes. I grew up here. On the second floor. I inherited it."

Alice nodded, looking as if she might want to say more, but stayed silent.

"I'm sure Esme told you most of it," Rosalie murmured. _It_ hung in the air between them. Rosalie's parents were friendly with the Cullens, and Alice seemed friendly with them, so it made sense. She wasn't sure how much Esme had said, but she could tell that Alice knew enough. Somehow, it didn't make her want to withdraw. She mirrored Alice's tentative smile.

"Well, she didn't tell me that."

This was new. Aside from Vera and family, Rosalie had never really talked about her parents with anyone. Just after the accident, things were a blur. Family stepped in and loyal employees kept things running while she grieved. Customers paid her in silent, sympathetic gestures, instinctively knowing not to say anything.

For a while she had considered closing Hale's Flowers. She had an offer to go work for a scientific publisher, doing exactly what she had planned to do before it had all changed. But when it came down to it, she couldn't set aside everything her parents had worked for, her family legacy, just for the opportunity to draw pictures for textbooks.

They stood silently for a beat, before Alice turned and said, "Your truck is so awesome."

Rosalie released the breath she had been holding in a sharp exhale. The polite thing to say was, _Thank you_. "I know," Rosalie said, smiling guiltily.

The 1954 Chevy panel truck had been her father's. He had restored it to use for deliveries and it was just plain cool. After a year and a half of grief, when she had finally decided to jump in and make the shop her own, she had the truck repainted a pearlescent, light blue. Now, just as it had been for her father, it was her pride and joy.

Rosalie hopped into the driver's seat and leaned over to unlock the door for Alice. The engine roared to life. Yes. She loved this car.

Pulling her iPhone out of her purse she plugged it into the radio and set the playlist to resume where she had last left off. When the familiar bass line started mid-song, followed by a whispered _Ice, Ice Baby..._ She reached to skip ahead a song. "Sorry..." she said, embarrassed.

Alice flung her arm out and stopped her. "Oh! No, no! Don't change it! I love, LOVE this song."

"Wha? Really?"

"_Take heed, 'cause I'm a lyrical poet..." _Alice belted.

"How old are you?"

"Almost twenty-five. ..._'Cause my style's like a chemical spill, Feasible rhymes that you can vision and feel... _Takes me back to childhood._"_

"Childhood?" Rosalie stared at Alice doubtfully as she pumped her arms and chin in time with the backbeat of the song. "You know Vanilla Ice?" She nearly always expected her eclectic taste in music to throw people off. Her collection was made up of classics through every decade: Elvis, Patsy, Nina, Jimi, Joni, Neil, Freddie, Paul. They all had a place in her playlist. She enjoyed her parents' favorites, notorious one-hit-wonders and current music that met her diverse taste. But even she was on the edge of being able to legitimately claim that she knew Vanilla Ice. How could Alice?

"_Conducted and formed, This is a hell of a concept, We make it hype and you want to step with this, Shay plays on the fade, slice it like a ninja, Cut like a razor blade, so fast... "_

Clearly she did. Rosalie raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth lifting in a smile.

"Young, weird parents... _Other DJ's say, "damn", If my rhyme was a drug, I'd sell it by the gram..._"

"I don't even know what to say, except that maybe we were meant to find one another."

Alice grinned widely, throwing her head back and finishing the verse with fervor. "_If there was a problem, Yo, I'll solve it!, Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it_"

"Word to your mother," Rosalie smirked and pulled the truck out of the alley and onto the street.

—::—

Rosalie had not had so much fun going to the flower market since the summer before her parents died.

The drive there had gone quickly—faster than it normally did with Tyler, who was always sullen and quiet on market mornings. Alice was a singer; and she sang at the top of her lungs. By the time they pulled up to the warehouse they had a Bohemian Rhapsody sing-a-long (head banging and all) under their belt and Rosalie had introduced her to ELO and Nina Simone.

They exited the truck in giggles, but walking up to the market entrance Rosalie started to feel nervous. "Every time I walk in here, it's different," she said, putting her hand on the outer door.

"Meaning how?" Alice probed.

If it wasn't fun anymore, the one thing the market was was consistent. Every time she walked into the cavernous space Rosalie was overwhelmed by a flood of memories—memories of being there with her father. The smell of cold, fresh, green made him so present in her mind that she nearly always expected to turn and see him standing with her. Outside of that constant, how the market was different depended on the time of year, the flowers that were in season, even the music that was playing.

"Meaning... it's different for everyone. The smells, the colors, the sheer vastness of it. It can be... overwhelming." She rushed through her half-answer and saw Alice's short nod out of the corner of her eye. "For me..." she sighed. "I remember different things every time. Sometimes good. Sometimes sad. I feel... regret." She looked up to Alice's sad smile. Taking a deep breath, she said, "But it's only in flashes and in between all the work that has to be done."

"You came here with your parents, a lot? Before?"

"Mostly my dad. It was our thing."

The two of them stood there silently, moving out of the way when a man approached with a flatbed cart full of five-gallon buckets. The two of them reached and pulled the double doors open to let him pass. Cool, fragrant air rushed out of the market. Rosalie watched Alice as he walked between them. There was nothing awkward about the moment. No, _I-don't-know-what-to-says _or_ I'm-so-sorrys_. It just was what it was and Rosalie felt incredibly grateful that Alice could let it be.

"Come on," she said, gesturing inside, "There's lots to do. Watch out, because the floor can be slippery."

—::—

Rosalie visited all of her regular vendors. Flipping through her orders sheet, she decided on what she needed immediately and what could be delivered throughout the week. Alice shadowed her closely taking everything in. The air was cool and damp. To say it was fragrant was actually a gross understatement. Walking through the large open space the two were carried on the flow of hundreds of floral perfumes blending together. Stopping as they went they were caught in eddies of particular scents: intoxicating jasmine and heady rose, the spicy scent of stock or earthy lavender... the choking smell of lilies.

They went from stall to stall, whose owners ranged from surly to lascivious. All of them smelled like coffee; one of them smelled like booze. Alice made quick sketches in her book along the way, asking Rosalie the names and meanings of the flowers she drew:

_Honeysuckle: bonds of love _

_Flowering almond: hope _

_Fennel: worthy of all praise, strength _

_Iris: I have a message for you _

_Mint: virtue_

At the last stall, while Alice marveled over some Copper Angel Highland orchids, Rosalie picked a few specific blooms to make a bouquet of celosia, peonies and allium. The tiny Asian woman wrapped them in butcher paper and placed them in a long box. Before handing it over to her she wrote in flourishing script, _Rosalie's Floriography_.

"What's violet?" Alice asked, leaning over to look closely at some potted blue violets. "Honesty?"

"No," Rosalie said, strolling over. "Love and faithfulness. Well, blue ones, at least."

"Hmph," Alice questioned, noting her last sketch. "I thought Edward told me it was 'honesty.'"

"Maybe he meant in _hanakatoba_," Rosalie offered. "Japanese floriography is different than Victorian in most cases. I think."

"Oh lord. How will I keep all this straight?"

"I'm available as a resource anytime," Rosalie grinned, looking at the time on her phone. In less than two hours they were done. "I should always take you to the market with me," Rosalie grinned. "I'm never out of here this quickly with Tyler. I might actually get my nap before opening today."

"I would totally do this again," Alice agreed. "Not every time, though. I can see this early morning catching up with me later."

Within minutes, they stood by the back of the truck waiting for someone to bring the day's orders. "Can I see what you drew today?" Rosalie asked. Alice palmed her pencil and turned her sketchbook around, handing it over.

Both of them looked up when a flatbed cart came rattling around the corner with a muscular, good-looking guy pushing it. "Hey, Rosalie," he rumbled, smiling broadly.

"Hi, Sam," Rosalie answered, smiling, but barely looking up from Alice's sketchbook.

He grunted lowly and started to load the back of the truck with five-gallon buckets of flowers: roses, tulips, carnations, gerbera daisies, baby's breath, grasses, poms, monte casino and more roses, lots and lots of roses.

"These are really good, Alice," Rosalie said, leafing slowly through the pages. Alice had started to go back over her rough sketches with more confident strokes. The flowers that emerged were bold and stylized. Rosalie snapped the sketchbook shut and passed it back. "Maybe _you _could do my tattoo."

Alice snorted, throwing her head back. "Right! No. Not a good idea. I'm not anywhere near good enough to make what I put on paper look right on skin. Yet, at least." She pursed her lips thoughtfully and added, "You should get Emmett to do it. He's really good."

An image of Emmett's hands on the naked rise of her hip and lower back flashed through Rosalie's mind. A hot blush quickly followed, spreading down her chest, up her neck and over her cheeks.

"Thinking about getting a tattoo, Rosalie?" Sam asked, loading the last of the buckets into the truck. He stood, brushed his hands down his jeans and then slapped them together, slowly rubbing his palms back and forth over one another. "Have you seen mine?" he said, starting to pull back his sleeve and not so subtly flexing his arm and pecs.

"Not really," Rosalie answered cooly, turning toward the front of the truck without even pausing to see what Sam wanted to show her. "Thanks for the help, Sam. I'll see you next week."

Rosalie jumped into the driver's seat and unlocked the passenger door for Alice, who climbed in quickly, an oddly amused look dancing over her face. Sam grumbled at the back of the truck and slammed the doors shut.

"Awww, he's sweet on you," Alice giggled.

"He's... What? No."

"Ye-ah. Pretty sure. Did you just see him?" Alice beamed. But the look of incredulous shock on Rosalie's face made her pause. "What? Not interested?"

Rosalie shook her head decisively. "In Sam? Definitely not." She started the truck, threw it into reverse and backed out of the parking space. "Me and guys… we just don't work."

"Wait. I did not see that coming. You're gay?" Alice's eyes were saucer big and Rosalie thought she might look a little disappointed.

"What? No! I mean..." Rosalie exhaled sharply in frustration. "They generally don't know I exist." She shifted into drive and started to make her way back out to the street. While still keeping her eyes on the road turned she turned slightly to Alice, who looked back at her skeptically. "Or they're all wrong," she said, worrying her face. "Or they want it all and then want nothing to do with me." Shaking her head she sighed, "More often than not, I'm just a total idiot."

They rode in silence for a few minutes. Rosalie stole glances at Alice who seemed very focused on the sideview mirror. Who was this girl? With her, Rosalie had actually had fun at the market. Real fun. It had been so long. With her she couldn't seem to keep her mouth shut. She had had more _real_ conversation with Alice in the last week than she had since Vera's last visit. Maybe it wasn't the kittens. Maybe it was just Rosalie around Alice.

"I can't imagine guys don't know you exist," Alice murmured.

"It happens," Rosalie answered quietly. Turning onto the highway she said, "I wouldn't mind a good guy who knows I exist. As terrifying as that might be, I wouldn't mind it."

Alice furrowed her brow and turned to stare straight ahead. She began to hum softly. Twenty minutes later they were turning into the alley behind Floriography.

—::—

When they finished unloading the buckets of flowers into the cooler Rosalie turned to Alice and took a big breath. "Thanks so much for this morning. I really owe you.." She smiled, feeling... weird. Desperately, and for the first time in a long time, she wanted someone to like her. "Maybe dinner?," she suggested, shyly.

"Yeah. You could come to my place!"

"Somehow... that doesn't feel like _me _thanking _you_."

"You can bring the wine. Red. Multiple bottles," she chuckled, waggling her eyebrows.

"Okay," Rosalie laughed. "And deviled eggs. I make excellent deviled eggs."

"Okay. Sounds yum." Alice's grin was wide; her eyes were as cheerful as the hearts tattooed over them.

They stood smiling a moment and then Rosalie turned toward the front of the shop. "Come on. I'll let you out the front. And I think I just thought of another way to thank you."

"Ooo, I like the sound of that."

They walked toward the front door and Rosalie handed Alice a beautifully labeled bottle from under the counter as they passed.

"Apothecary Floriography?" Alice traced her fingers over the label: _Soothing Aloe, Lavender and Rosemary Facial Mask_.

"I'm trying some things out. I have so many botanical scraps left from my work. I've been drying them. Or making essential oils and then using them to make other things. Mostly soaps and lotions. Try this mask and let me know what you think. I could use the honest feedback... and something tells me I can count on you for that."

"Thanks," Alice blushed.

Smiling, Rosalie quickly breezed past her and unlocked the front door. The two of them stepped out onto the sidewalk and Rosalie pulled the door shut and locked it again. When she turned back to Alice she was a little startled by the look on the girl's face. She looked... determined.

"He's a good guy, you know."

"Ummm... who?"

"Emmett," Alice declared, again with a raised eyebrow.

Rosalie's mouth dropped open and her brain began to spin. _And? So? That's only half of the equation, right? He'd have to be interested and though he seemed nice, he also seemed... solitary? Or removed. Nice. But not interested. Nice and very good looking, but not interested. _Finally she said, "He seems to be," she said with an uneasy smile. She thought she might say more—that she might ask Alice what she meant—but she didn't.

"You should talk to him about your tattoo," Alice said, pointedly, walking away. "I can't wait to try your deviled eggs."

* * *

><p>Next chapter: My, I mean, Rosalie's deviled egg recipe. They really do rock. Oh, and Emmett comes back! ;)<p>

It turns out that my muse is pretty sensitive to what I'm reading while I'm writing. Some things shut her down, others spur her on. After all the drama, when I finally got my groove back I was reading **whatsmynomdeplume**'s "The Best I Ever Had" and "Legendary." You should check them out.

I've noticed a theme of questions from some of you that have left reviews… Will Jasper and/or Bella show their faces in this fic? The most honest answer is: I'm not sure. So far, as I've outlined, they are not critical to the plot. My focus is really what's _blooming_ between Rosalie and Emmett. *smacks forehead* That's not to say they won't force their way in. I only outline loosely. The characters themselves have quite a bit of say on how things go.

That leads quite nicely into my next point… I also want to thank all of you E/B readers that have decided to give this fic a try. More than a few messages have noted that many of you don't normally stray outside of that realm. Your profiles and favorites seem to confirm that, too. Thanks for making the leap… and let me encourage you to give it a try more often. **LJ Summers **and**AccioBourbon** are two favorites.

Reviews are like pink wine and gluten-free French fries.


	5. Chapter Five::Daffodil::Regard

**This one took longer than expected.**

**I still do not own Twilight.**

* * *

><p>Chapter 5:: Daffodil:: Regard, Respect, Chivalry<p>

Pink Peony - Bashful (or Shame)

Celosia (Cock's Comb) - Joyus, Uncomplicated Affection

Allium - One, Unity

—::—

Emmett thought if he ignored the tentative knocking, that the person at the front door might get a clue; that they might open their eyes and see the hours of operation sign hanging plainly in the window and realize that the shop wouldn't be open for another hour and a half.

That's what he thought.

But then the knocking turned more insistent, and louder; the hollow _tunk, tunk, tunk_ of knuckles on glass pinballed through his skull.

"What the hell?" he growled, tearing himself away from the invoices he was trying to catch up on. That in itself was enough to ruin a morning, but being interrupted? He thrust his chair back from his desk more forcefully than necessary. It rolled and bounced lightly off the wall as he stalked out of his office and toward the front of the shop.

"Whoever you are... this better be-"

The burst of pink he saw through the glass stopped his rant, and him in his tracks. Slowly, he started to make his way to the door again. _Flowers? From... Rosalie?_

He reached for the lock and saw a very nervous Tyler Crowley holding forth a vibrant floral arrangement.

"Yo, Emmett," Tyler warbled, without actually looking Emmett in the eye. He took agitated steps on and off the stoop leading into the shop.

"Tyler," Emmett answered, eyes shifting between the boy's sallow, pimply face and the flowers.

Tyler was a local kid—always hanging around. He was perpetually perusing the flash tattoos on the wall of the shop, but had yet to actually bite the bullet and get one. Edward loathed him; called him a poser. Alice also seemed to find him annoying. She'd tried for a while to work her tattoo magic on him, but had finally given up.

Emmett was less concerned about whether the kid was going to buy and more about his overall demeanor. Tyler always seem stoned, hopped-up or an odd combination of both. A stray thought trailed through Emmett's mind and he flicked his eyes across the street to Floriography: _Does Rosalie drug-test her employees?_ Because this kid set off all his alarms.

Tyler still hadn't answered, but continued to fidget. Emmett inclined his head slightly and raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, uh," Tyler mumbled. "Flowers."

"Yeah, dude. I see that." Emmett shifted back onto his heels, unfolding to his full height and crossing his arms over his chest. It was meant to intimidate and it did. He was irritated and just wanted Tyler to get on with it. He wanted to know what was up with the flowers—who they were from and who they were for.

"Right, uh... flowers... for Alice. From Rosalie. I know you're not open... yet. But I've got a shit ton of deliveries and... it was fast to run them over?"

Unbidden, a smile broke over Emmett's face. "For helping out at the market? That's nice of Rosalie." Tyler shrugged and twisted his lips a little, as if he didn't think flowers were necessary. Emmett narrowed his eyes at him and held his hand out. "Alright, hand 'em over and get on with your deliveries." He would talk to Rosalie about this kid. Something about him wasn't cool.

Tyler passed over the open-top box like it was a hot potato, turning to go before Emmett was sure he had a firm grasp on it. Water sloshed and dripped out of the bottom of the box. "Shit, Tyler."

"Sorry," Tyler called, already running back across the street.

Emmett held the dripping box in one hand and locked the door again. "Asshole."

Walking toward the reception desk, he held the box away from him and looked at the arrangement more closely. _Peonies_. In tattooing they were meant to represent bravery, but it was probably something different in floriography. He looked at the other flowers—something that looked like a brain and a spikey thing—tucked amongst them. _I have no idea. But strange and beautiful... like Alice. _It seemed that Rosalie was very good at her craft. This wasn't just a generic thank you bouquet. She'd clearly put a lot of thought into it.

He set the box down and reached inside to lift the arrangement out. He slid his fingers around the petals, careful not to bruise or tear them. Below the edge of the box he could feel the vase. It was oddly shaped and slick from the water that had spilled over the sides. "Tyler," Emmett growled.

He pulled the box away from the arrangement and a white, oblong orb of a vase was revealed. It looked like a flattened egg. In combination with the bright pinks, yellows and whites of the flowers it was cheerful and weird. It made him smile—until he felt it start to slip from his hand. Before he could even contemplate what was happening the whole thing was lying shattered on the floor—a mass of pink petals and shards of white porcelain.

"Shitshitshit! Idiot!" Emmett bellowed, his stomach sinking. Inside he raged against Tyler, but quickly turned the ire on himself. _Just fuckin' careless._ He grabbed the box and squatted down next to the mess. Carefully, he fished the undamaged flowers out of the pile and set them in the box. With the tips of his fingers he started to sweep the broken fragments into a loose pile. He'd already picked up one of the larger pieces and dropped in the pile before he realized that the edge was sharper than it had looked. It sliced neatly through his thumb; a thin line of blood bloomed across the skin.

"Fuck. What the fuck is wrong with you, Emmett?" he hissed, pushing the pad of his thumb to his lips, licking at it lightly with the very tip of his tongue. The taste of the blood was metallic and sweet. As long as he didn't look at it he'd be fine.

"Yes, what the fuck _is _wrong with you, Emmett?" Garrett called from behind him.

Emmett stood, still sucking at his thumb.

"Having flowers delivered now, are we?" Garrett smirked, raising an eyebrow as he rolled closer.

"No," Emmet grumbled. "Ro- the florist sent them for Alice... and I fuckin' dropped them."

"Ah, nice." Garrett made a smooth turn and rolled to the closet for the broom, a dustpan and some paper towels. "Well, get over there quick. Maybe _Rosalie_ can do it over again before Alice gets here. I'll clean this up."

Emmett stepped away from the mess, pressing his bleeding thumb hard against his middle finger. Garrett cleverly tucked the dustpan against one of the wheels of his chair and made quick work of the debris.

"Go, dude. Before Alice gets to work." Emmett sighed and bent over to pick up the box of flowers. So much for doing invoices. He stalked to the front door, looking back once to Garrett who was grinning at him like he knew something Emmett didn't. "Go."

Between the doors of Miss Pixie's and Floriography Emmett swung from annoyed to anxious. He felt like an ass for destroying Rosalie's gift, but a queer feeling spun low in his stomach and over his shoulder blades, too. He pushed into the shop with his pulse throbbing in his throat. A mechanical bell rang somewhere in the back.

"I'll be there in a moment," Rosalie called from a room behind the counter. Emmett cleared his throat nervously and looked around the shop. Seconds later Rosalie rounded the corner from what he guessed was her workroom. "Oh... Emmett."

He was momentarily stunned silent. She took him by surprise once again. He'd seen her only from a distance for so long that he had an expectation of what she looked like and it was nothing close to the truth. How could she look so fresh and still carry off that pin-up look? He had a sudden flash of a calendar hung in his office—all of Rosalie doing mundane things like trimming rose bushes and making coffee. He felt a baffled smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and he bit his cheek. No point in looking cheerful. He had bad news to deliver.

The half-smile easily dropped away when he saw the look of horror on Rosalie's face. She was gaping at the flowers. He lifted the box slightly and tried to explain. "Yeah. I'm sorry. I was hoping you could recreate it. I'm happy to pay. It slipped right out of my damn hands."

"What?" she hissed, wiping her hands down her work apron and stepping quickly from behind the counter. "Don't be ridiculous, Emmett. You're bleeding all over the place."

Shocked by her tone, Emmett looked down from the flowers to his left hand. Sure enough, blood from the cut on his thumb had spread slick and wet over his other fingers. He counted three drops that had already hit the floor. "Shit." Rosalie reached for the box of flowers, glaring at him like he was nuts. This had taken an unexpected turn for the worse. "I'm sorry."

She put the box on the counter and grabbed his uninjured hand. "Emmett, what did I just say about ridiculous?" With more strength than he expected she pulled him behind the counter and into the back room.

"Sit," she said pointing to a stool next to her work table. "Put your hand above your heart."

"Damn, it's really bleeding," Emmett observed, briefly closing his eyes and holding his hand up. "I didn't realize."

"How could you not?" Rosalie returned to the table with a well used first-aid kit and some wet paper towels. She pinched her brows at him. "Look, it's practically gushing. Doesn't it hurt?"

Emmett looked up at his thumb as she pulled supplies out of the box. It throbbed. His whole hand was throbbing, actually. And it was bloody. Really bloody. "Uhh..."

"Emmett?" Rosalie put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed hard. "Emmett. Look at me."

"I'm not great with blood."

"You're a tattoo artist."

"_My_ blood. I'm not great with my blood," he chuckled. His forehead felt chilled and his temples were tingling. He looked up at Rosalie who was standing in front of him, real concern marring her face. He knew the dark sparkles at the edges of his vision were a precursor to a potential faint, but the way they framed her scowl was beautiful. He snorted. He _was_ ridiculous and his self-conscious grin confirmed it.

"Emmett," Rosalie said, sharply. "You cannot pass out." Her hand was still on his shoulder and she trailed her thumbnail unconsciously against his neck. Her big blue eyes drilled into him, imploring. "You're too big. I would have to let you fall to the floor and that might hurt more than your thumb."

He chucked pathetically, nodding. Relief washed over Rosalie's face and she laughed, too.

"Okay? Can you stay with me?"

Emmett closed his eyes again, took a huge breath and blew it out hard. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes. I'm good. I'll just put my head down for a second." _My God. I'll just put my head down? Nice, Emmett. _It made no sense, he knew. He wiped other people's blood up all day. But for some reason the sight of his own made his eyes go black and his stomach roil.

"Okay," she said with a reassuring smile. "Give me your hand."

Making a slow and deliberate turn on the stool, Emmett held his hand toward her and put his head down on the work table. Rosalie took his wrist and pulled his thumb and finger apart to examine the wound more closely. Her fingers were cool and it calmed him instantly. He breathed deeply, in through his nose and out through his mouth.

"You got yourself pretty good, but I think it looks worse than it is. Fingers tend to bleed a lot." A low groan rumbled in Emmett's chest and Rosalie sighed sympathetically. She put her hand on the back of his neck and again he relaxed. "Sorry. I don't mean to seem callous." He could hear a gentle smile in her voice. "It's just that I cut myself a lot. Thorns. Broken vases." She held her slim band-aid covered fingers low so he could see them. "It goes with the job."

Without thinking, Emmett reached for her hand, grabbed the ends of her fingers and wrapped his around them. "Thanks," he said, softly. _Thanks for not making me feel any more stupid than I already do. Thanks for keeping me from passing out in front of you. Thanks._

"No problem," Rosalie breathed. Something shifted and they were quiet for a moment while whatever it was lingered. It went just past the point of comfort before Rosalie cleared her throat. "Okay," she resolved, squeezing his fingers lightly and taking her hand back. "Keep pressure on there a sec."

She laid Emmett's forearm on the table next to him and patted his wrist. He tried to center himself while he listened to her rip and crumple wrappers, preparing to doctor his thumb. With his head still down, he looked over at her legs as she shifted around next to him. Shapely calves and slim ankles curved down to her feet, and disappeared into her shoes. The hint of red-polished toes peeked out. She looked straight out of an Elvis movie in that sundress. She looked _safe_. That sounded wrong in his head, but he couldn't help but feel that way.

"So, what happened here?" Her hands felt warmer on his skin now. He flexed his hand a little, overtaken by the urge to hold hers again. She took wet paper towels and gently washed the blood away from his palm and fingers, saving his thumb for last.

Emmett sighed. "I dropped the flowers you sent for Alice. That's why I came over. To see if you could redo it."

"Ahh... Those orb vases are tricky." Slowly, she started cleaning his thumb. "Sorry ahead of time if I hurt you." Emmett tensed. Rosalie seemed to sense it, because she said, her voice trembling slightly, "I'm not setting out to but it probably will hurt. So... sorry."

"Okay," Emmett grunted, bracing himself. And that's when it struck him. Somewhere between her band-aids and her preemptive apology he realized that she _was _safe. Not a sure thing. But someone that he wanted to know. Nothing like the girls he ran through when he was drinking and trying to lose himself—the same girls he now avoided like the plague. Like vampires on the hunt, they had sucked him dry while he was already trying to bleed himself empty. Rosalie was nothing like that. She was guarded and shy, but genuine and strong, too. The way she'd pulled him back here when he stood bleeding all over her floor. She was worried and 'take charge,' which was in deep contrast to the quiet and nervous woman he had met just a week before.

"Absolutely, I can redo the arrangement. No problem. She was so nice to help me yesterday. She's... I really like her." Rosalie made a quick swipe over the cut on his thumb, squeezing his palm in apology.

Emmett hissed. "Alice is easy to like."

"She's talented, too. I saw her sketchbook," Rosalie said, pressing firmly on the cut. She let go for a second, he assumed to look at it, and then squeezed it again, more firmly.

"She is. She'll make a good tattoo artist."

"How do you feel about Super Glue?"

"What?" he asked, lifting his head slightly, completely confused.

Rosalie was looking down at him with a crooked smile. She dropped her eyes for a second, biting the inside of her lip. "Super Glue. I use it for cuts sometimes. Yours looks like a good candidate."

Emmett slowly sat all the way up. "Um, okay?"

Rosalie still held his hand firmly, pressing down on the cut. "Trust me," she smiled. "I do it all the time. I'll be okay."

"Okay," he said, with more resolve.

The smile dropped away from Rosalie's face as she pulled Emmett's hand up so she look more closely at it. He smiled at the little line that appeared over her nose as she pinched the cut shut. She reached for a tube of Super Glue and held it up to Emmett. He pulled the cap off and she ran a small bead of glue down the length of the cut. She held the tube out again and Emmett replaced the cap and took the glue from her. Her proud smile made warmth bloom in his chest.

"When?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

"When?" Emmett returned, again confused.

"When will she make a good tattoo artist? She said she hasn't tattooed anyone yet."

"Ahhh... soon. I'm thinking about letting her try soon."

"That's what she said." Rosalie smiled, thoughtfully, almost proudly.

Emmett chuckled at Rosalie's unintentional use of Edward's running joke. "Oh, she did, did she?"

"Yes. Well, she hopes." The look on Rosalie's face shifted to one of concern. "I'm not implying that she assumes. Not at all."

"I didn't think you were."

Emmett smiled reassuringly. Rosalie stared at him a moment longer and then visibly relaxed. She smiled shyly back before leaning over his hand and blowing lightly over the cut. The sensation of her hot breath flowed over his thumb and straight down to his groin. He shifted slightly, mesmerized by the perfect bow of her red lips as she continued to blow. And—_oh God_—he felt the inseam of his jeans getting snug. The back of his neck flushed hot and he felt a blush creeping over his shoulders and across his chest.

Rosalie straightened and looked him in the eye again. "Could it be me?"

"Yes," he answered, unconsciously. His embarrassment was overwhelming. Every inch of him wanted to break her gaze, but he just couldn't. Then it dawned on him then that he had no idea what she had just asked him. "Wait, what?"

"Could she tattoo me?" she asked, expectantly-hopeful.

"Uhhh..." Emmett took a deep breath. The idea that any moment she might realize why he was so distracted snapped him back into the moment and he felt his half-erection flag.

"Something really small. I saw the tiny heart she did and I thought maybe something like that. Just to start."

"Sure," Emmett stumbled, unable to deny her. "I think we could work something out."

"Really?" Rosalie smiled and released a breathy laugh. It made him grin widely back at her.

"Yeah," he chuckled.

"Great," she said, her voice dropping.

"Great."

"She's right, you know." Rosalie's cheeks lit up brightly and her blue eyes shined.

"Oh?"

"You are a nice guy." Emmett felt his heart jerk and his stomach drop.

—::—

Walking back toward the shop in a daze, Emmett absently rubbing the bandage Rosalie had wrapped around his thumb. She had promised to deliver the flowers in person later and his stomach pitched minutely at the thought. It had only been seconds since he'd walked out of her shop. Seconds. What the fuck was wrong with him?

He had absolutely no idea what to do with these foreign feelings. He hadn't had a relationship since before the accident—if you could even call a high school girlfriend a relationship. He and the few girls he'd dated did high school things, like go to parties and movies, make out in his car, attend homecoming and prom. It wasn't that there weren't offers, or opportunities, for more. But in high school taking everything that was offered hadn't appealed. There was eventually more than just making out. He lost his virginity to Tanya Snowe in Garrett's pool house after Junior Prom—much to his dismay. It was _nice_. And he briefly harbored ideas of what it might be like to be in it for the long haul with Tanya, until she deflowered one of his football teammates, too.

His high school ideals were easily cast aside in the time he spent numbing himself after the accident. His less than discriminating taste lead to plenty of encounters and lots of sex but nothing he would call a relationship. He spent five years in Maggie's tattoo shop, apprenticing and eventually cutting his teeth on his own roster of clients. Five years of half—sometimes three-quarters—naked women. It was easy to find ways to distract himself. If it wasn't the women, it was booze. Sometimes, though he never went as hard as the year right after the hospital, it was drugs, too.

Maggie told him three years in that she thought he was ready to start taking on clients from a skill standpoint. But she made it clear that how he was living his life was not okay. He knew that. It wasn't okay with him either. But he still felt hollow and didn't know how to fill the empty. It was six more months of fucking around before he put a stop to all of it. He called Garrett and talked to him for the first time in a very long time. Then he called his mom. After that: No more drugs. No more drinking. No more women. Once he pulled himself together he tried the dating thing again, but it felt stale and meaningless. Outside of the occasional setup he pretty much kept to himself.

But since Rosalie had come into the shop he felt an unexpected draw to her, like a warm tide pulling him into deeper waters. He thought he could resist it; his habit of abstinence was an easy one to maintain. At least it had been. But now, remembering Rosalie's impossibly blue eyes, her shy smiles and the sweep of those legs, he knew he didn't want to.

He walked up to the door of the shop and looked inside. Garrett saw him and stared back. His pause was a few beats too long. He wasn't ready to go back in and face whatever questions lay behind the dubious look on Garrett's face.

"Coffee?" Emmett yelled unnecessarily loud. Garrett affirmed with a curt nod and Emmett continued down the street to the Cullen's market. He needed to sort his brain out and another cup of Esme's wicked brew would help.

Every day that Miss Pixie's was open was a day that Emmett started with a cup of coffee at Cullen's Market. Every day, he and Esme exchanged the latest news over the counter. Some days it was mundane. Some days, out of nowhere, it was something more significant. It was one of those mornings that he learned that Esme had a tattoo. It was another, that she somehow managed to extract the outlines of the sorry story of the accident. She was a surgeon: performing a transplant or removing cancer. She gave and took only what was actually needed for the patient to survive—nothing more, nothing less.

"Back for another?"

"Yep. One for Garrett, too. I need a little something. My day is off to a weird start."

"You didn't have that when you were here earlier." Esme said, nodding toward Emmett's bandaged thumb. He was holding it out awkwardly, as if in a perpetual state of hitching a ride.

Emmett released an exasperated huff, flexing his hand. "I dropped a vase of flowers that Rosalie sent to Alice."

"Oh? How'd you manage to get so professionally bandaged? I know it wasn't you." Esme passed him a mischievous smile, before turning to the espresso machine. She was well aware of Emmett's aversion to his own blood. There wasn't much she wasn't aware of in the neighborhood.

"No, wasn't me," Emmett smirked. "Rosalie fixed me up."

"She did?" Esme raised an eyebrow in wonder.

"Yes," he said, not unaware of Esme's scrutiny. He replied to her raised brow with one of his own.

"I'm just surprised," she said, pushing her lips out.

"I took the flowers back to her to see if she could redo the arrangement. She saw the blood and went all Florence Nightingale on me." He said this, smiling as if it were no big deal, even though inside he was starting to think that it was.

Esme nodded thoughtfully. "It makes me happy to see her making friends. She doesn't really let people in. Never has. Life..." she paused, considering her next words carefully, "Hasn't always been kind to Rosalie."

Emmett looked down at his thumb again, choosing his words just as carefully. "Alice mentioned something like that. She didn't say much." He didn't press, but he knew Esme would tell him just enough. It wasn't that she gossiped or that she shared things she shouldn't but she seemed to know when certain people should know more than they did. And, he felt like he needed to know.

"Rosalie's always been reserved. Even as a girl. I spent a lot of time talking over this same counter with Adelaide—her mom. She was funny and loud. A complete foil to her husband. And her daughter." Esme turned and busied herself making the espresso, but Emmett could see the wistful sadness that clouded her face.

"The end of her Junior year, a boy..." Emmett felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. "...a boy assaulted her at a party. His friends kept watch."

Emmett's pulse shot into his throat at a rapid pace and his scalp tingled; like lightning had struck right next to him. He felt shaken, and angry. "He... he raped her?"

"No. Thank God. No. It didn't get that far. She came to her own rescue. Laid him out with a knee to the groin and walked out of there. But, it still wounded her deeply. She folded in on herself. Robert and Adie were at a loss."

Esme finished making the coffees and placed them on the counter. Emmett wrapped his hands around the two, small, Styrofoam cups and let the warmth seep into his skin. His mind was racing and he couldn't decide what he wanted. Did he want to leave and go back to Rosalie? Did he want to track those assholes down and do them damage? Part of him suddenly felt parched and he had a desperate need for the very specific shape and feel of a bottle of Black Label in his hand. He'd been so practiced at not feeling anything significant for so long that the rush of adrenaline that coursed through him after Esme's revelation made him feel sick and faint, all at once. Maybe even more than when he was watching his thumb weep with blood.

They stood in silence. Emmett squashed the need for a drink by peeling off the lid off of one of the cups and taking an overly large gulp of the hot coffee. It burned his tongue and the roof of his mouth. It burned all the way down his throat.

"It was only a year after that Adelaide and Robert were killed," Esme murmured, looking at him pointedly. "That girl's a fine balance of delicate and unbreakable."

—::—

Emmett pushed the shop door open with his back. He handed off the coffee to Garrett and continued to his office. He didn't say a word.

"Hey! None for me?" Edward whined.

Emmett shut the door softly, relishing the metallic click of the bolt. He sunk slowly into his chair and listened to Garrett and Edward's muffled voices through the wall.

His mind flashed back and forth between Rosalie's bright, smiling face as she saw to his cut and the worst nightmare he could imagine: some animal forcing himself on her; his friends standing sentinel. He slammed his fist down on the desk, shaking his head, trying to jar the thoughts from his head. The impact reverberated loudly in the small office. The voices in the other room stopped.

The tentative knock came a few moments later. "Em?" Garrett asked, his voice deadened by the door.

"I need a minute." Emmett rubbed his fingers over his eyes, savoring the empty red-blackness.

"Okay, man," Garrett replied, his voice fading as he rolled away. Emmett heard more low mumbling and then silence.

He skimmed his fingers over the bandage again, his eyes trailing up his arm and over roots, trunk and branches of his tattoo. Under the dark shadows of the bark he could still make out the remnants of demon tattoo the tree was meant to obscure—to erase. No one other than Garrett would be able to see the dead eyes and wide, open hellmouth; but Emmett knew it was there. It was the tattoo of a boy—an angry, wounded child. And the tree that Garrett had tattooed over it wasn't a cover-up, but a graft meant to heal him from the outside in.

Rosalie wanted a tattoo. _Something small_. He recalled the look of joy on her face when he said he would work it out. The way her eyes sparkled and the blush burned across her cheeks. Was she hoping that it might heal her too? Or was it more about doing something for Alice? Someone she just met? He couldn't tell and he was fascinated.

Cataloging the few short moments he had spent with her last week, he remembered her as friendly, but guarded. She seemed so different today and it had a definite effect on him. That wave of need he felt as he watched her had surprised him. It was something he hadn't connected with a real person in very long time. He was a man after all, not a monk, but he had been more or less going through the motions since he got sober. He wasn't sure how to recalibrate for how Rosalie was making him feel; especially after what he learned from Esme.

He stood. This was not something he would unravel sitting in his office. There was work to do. Invoices could wait. He opened the door and inhaled deeply, standing up tall. His back and neck cracked and he felt better immediately. He would figure this out. Esme's words pushed to the forefront of his jumbled thoughts: _It makes me happy to see her making friends. She doesn't really let people in. Never has._

There were very few people in the world that made Emmett's short list. He counted the three he worked with every day among them, even Edward. Beyond that the list wasn't much longer. But he already knew after this morning that he was capable of making room for one Rosalie Hale. The rest of it he could figure out later.

* * *

><p><strong>There's never enough love for Zaza724 and RillaotValley. We've all had a nutty few weeks and they still managed to read and edit for me when I finally managed to put these words on the page. Here's hoping the next few weeks are less stressful.<strong>

**I wanted to add the full meaning of Daffodil. It was entirely too long to fit into the chapter name but I think it was a perfect fit: Regard, Respect, Chivalry, Gracefulness, Sunshine, Unrequited love, Symbolic for the power of inner beauty and clarity of thought; many decisions are easier if they are not over analyzed but instead clarified and soundly resolved.**

**I've done a ton of reading lately. T****he following are complete:**

**Bonne Foi » by Amethyst Jackson (Finally complete. I just found it. Lucky me I wasn't waiting since 2008!)**

**The Earth, It Trembles » by ginginlee (Really tender. LOVE.)**

**No Measure of Time » by cosmogirl7481 (Um… HOT)**

**Some great and complete R/Em recommendations. Go on! Give it a try:**

**Real Plastic Trees » by HotMessica (So, so, so good!)**

**A Player to be Named Later » by TheHeartOfLife (Clever. It made me giddy. And this Emmett is yummy.)**

**Still in progress:**

**I am obsessed with High Fidelity by IReenH. OBSESSED. I await chapter 13 with baited breath.**

**And don't forget to check out Zaza724's fic, Lucky Girl!**

**I'm off for a week in London for work on Monday. I'll be writing on the plane!**

**Thanks to everyone for your PMs and reviews. (Psssttt… Reviews are really nice. I read and respond to all of them… I really do.)**


	6. Chapter Six::Peony::Brave Hanakatoba

**A/N:**

**It took a month. Well, more than a month. But it's done. In between, I also wrote an E/B outtake for this story for my pre-assignment to Smut University—my fist lemon! It's the first chapter in my assignments under my profile. (I also posted it over at AO3. Thinking about moving there... just so you know.)**

**So, that was part of the distraction. The rest of it was my brain working overtime, or maybe undertime. Regardless, it was hard. Don't get worried. I am not flouncing on myself. (Look at the big fandom words on me!) Just not letting little blocks get me down. I am powering through, but sometimes that takes longer than one might like.**

**Thanks to: Zaza724, RillaotValley, ajapersuasia, twilight_moirae for all the reading, WCing, back rubbing, ass kicking.**

**If I owned Twilight I'd buy a villa in Tuscany. Go watch Stealing Beauty and you'll know what I mean. Mozart's Claranet Concerto in A, people.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6::Peony::Brave (<em>Hanakatoba<em>Japanese Floriography)**

_Ohmygodohmygod… What was that?_

The mechanical bell sounded in the back room again as Emmett exited the shop. Rosalie stood watching from the counter—her hands tangled in her apron, her heart tangled in her chest.

_What _was_ that?_

Rosalie leaned over the counter and watched Emmett retreat across the street. Short, heated breaths passed over her parted lips. He walked slowly—indecisively—lifting his injured hand up to his face and letting it fall again. She felt a little tremor just behind her knees as she remembered the feel of his finger wrapped lightly around hers. She closed her eyes, taking in a shaky breath.

_Terrifying... exhilarating, that's what._

He slowed as he approached the center of the street, waiting for some cars to pass, and she walked toward the door so she wouldn't lose him beyond the edge of the shop's windows. His tall frame was twisted slightly as he watched for traffic.

Her eyes surveyed him from top to bottom. Though she was more practiced at drawing plants, her hands itched to sketch the curls that threatened the tips of his closely cropped hair, his broad shoulders, the muscled back hidden under his shirt. She traced his lean hips in her mind's eye, and the way they held those perfectly worn jeans over... _that butt. _Like that, as if someone had told an especially raunchy joke, she broke into a grin she tried unsuccessfully to smother with pursed lips and fingers pressed to her mouth. The harder she tried, the more violent the blush that accompanied the grin.

She stepped forward again, studying him as he waited, and imagining what more lay under his clothes.

A long, narrow stretch of dark ink shot downward from under his right t-shirt sleeve to his elbow. His arm swung back as he started to walk again and she could see that the tattooed line extended past the joint and down the back his forearm. Did it go all the way up the back of his arm? And what did it mean?

On his other arm, she saw the tree. Across the distance she couldn't make out any of the detail she had greedily consumed as she cleaned the blood away from his fingers. Her smile faded as she called it up in her mind again: the twisted branches; the falling poplar leaves; the remnants of a face hidden behind the grey-scale detail of the bark. Faint. So faint were the details, she knew that the tree was meant to conceal it. But the work couldn't veil the tortured features entirely. Had he known poplar stood for courage when he chose that tattoo? Maybe he didn't even realize. Most people didn't distinguish between trees like she did—or know floriography for that matter. It was the image of an old, strong tree. Maybe that was what it represented to him: strength. Strength to cover that demon face.

Emmett reached the door of his shop and paused. She noted a slight shift in his shoulders, like he might look back, but then he lifted his hand and looked as if he was yelling something. After the briefest of moments he turned down the sidewalk and walked out of view.

She headed back toward the workroom, grabbing the paper towels and a spray bottle of cleanser from the counter where Emmett had left them. He had insisted on cleaning up his blood from the floor, even though he looked green as he suggested it. She smiled, and her heart fluttered a little, remembering how he had laughed at himself as he swooned at the sight of his own blood. He was nothing like the tough, gruff guy she had thought he might be.

—::—

Rosalie sorted through the salvaged flowers with a practiced eye. Most of them could be reused in the new arrangement she was making for Alice. Only one of the peonies was too bruised. But all the petals had been soaked in the spilled water and it was likely that they would brown more quickly, even if the damage wasn't readily apparent. She easily had enough to recreate it entirely, so she put the old ones aside and set about trimming fresh blooms.

On autopilot she stripped the stems of unnecessary and dessicated leaves, cutting them to height. Once finished with that, she began pushing them gently into the square of foamy, green oasis that she had wedged into the bottom of another orb vase. With just a few more quick cuts, the arrangement started to take shape.

"Déjà vu?" someone asked.

Rosalie looked up from her work to find Anna, her shop assistant, staring at her, puzzled. "Huh?" Rosalie murmured.

"Weren't you making that same, exact arrangement yesterday?" Anna asked.

"Oh, yes," Rosalie stammered. "But, Em—the tattoo guy broke it. Well..." She paused. "He didn't mean to... but he did."

"Em?"

"Emmett. The owner of the tattoo shop is Emmett." Focused as she might have been on playing it cool, when she said his name, Rosalie felt the heat of a blush.

"Oh," Anna said, matter-of-factly, as she went about stowing her purse in a cabinet and her lunch in the small refrigerator in the kitchenette. Rosalie waited for her to say more, expecting it, dreading it, craving it. She was suddenly finding her usual cloistered state stifling. She wanted to giggle and blush with a girlfriend. But Anna only made her way to the front of the shop, leaving Rosalie to take in a small breath of relief and disappointment.

She trimmed and pressed the last of the peonies into the oasis and then did the same with the cockscomb and the allium. When she was finished she spun the vase gently, checking it for symmetry. It was perfect. Maybe even nicer than the one she had made the day before—a simple message for the girl who had found a chink in her emotional armor. _I like you. I want to be friends, but I feel shy. _

She was tired of feeling like she was stuck outside the frame of an Edward Hopper painting—watching for the moment when the scene would be set in motion. Always waiting. But now, for the first time since before her parents died, since before... she felt just inside the edge of something. Like the silence was just a lull in an ongoing conversation and she was about to participate.

What message, she thought, as she carried Alice's arrangement to the cooler, would she send Emmett, if she were bold enough? Edelweiss for _daring_? A mischievous smile played across her lips as she considered the possibility. Some peppermint for _warmth of feelings_? Or maybe begonia? A warning to take care: _Beware, I am fanciful. _

She wondered what those flowers meant in tattooing, though. Would the message be received or garbled in translation? Rosalie shook her head at the ridiculousness of it. She would not send Emmett flowers. But, it might be interesting to see how he would interpret the ones she was giving to Alice. What would they mean to him?

"Google," she declared, sliding onto the stool at her desk and opening a browser window.

She typed: _meaning of peony tattoo_. The search returned almost three million results. She scrolled down the page. Immediately a snippet from one of the results jumped out at her:

_...Japanese Hanakatoba regards the peony as the King of Flowers and it is a symbol of honor, bravery ... _

"Bravery," she whispered. "Couldn't be more opposite of bashful." _Or more perfect._

Another quick search revealed that a tattoo of the garlic flower, allium, was a symbol of strength and protection against negativity. It seemed that her arrangement, completely randomly, had dual meanings.

She made one last search, for Celosia—cockscomb. _"Joyous affection_ in floriography, and in tattooing..." _Affectation_. Her confidence in her unintentional triumph over the two disciplines flagged. "A pretender," she mumbled. _I pretend to be brave and strong. _"Hmph."

Standing, she retied her apron, smoothed her hair and tightened her ponytail. Floriography was her language. Tattoos were his. She could choose to take what she wanted from his and leave the rest. She reached for one of the salvaged peonies and tucked it into base of her ponytail. It's soft, pink petals caressed her neck.

_Brave_, she thought.

At closing time Rosalie leaned her hips into the bathroom sink and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She had spent the day in a daze, and her lipstick—despite multiple applications—showed it. She had practically chewed it off.

Not since Professor Varner had she mooned over a man—well, a real man.

A real man was nothing but complicated. How many times, though, had she fallen asleep thinking of tall, dark and handsome—dreamed of his kisses and caresses. He could be a movie star, a character in a book or a nameless, faceless man that she had conjured in her mind. He was a man who could do no harm, whom she would never see walking down the street—a man who could never use her secrets against her. He could never feel sorry for her. That man was easy to take into her bed—into the shower. He never disappointed and never inspired regret.

But Emmett was neither nameless nor faceless, and she would most certainly see him walking down the street. His face was apparently burned into the back of her eyelids and she could easily call the low timbre of his voice up in her mind. She folded her bottom lip under her teeth again, worrying it.

The woman in the mirror stared back.

Rosalie reached into her pocket for her signature tube of Russian Red. Half a second into the unconscious, practiced motion, she stopped herself. That lipstick was armor, just like her spectator pumps. Today it felt unnecessary.

She turned and dug into the bottom of her purse instead. The underused, honey lip balm was covered in lint. She twisted it in her hand to clean it and popped off the cap. It glided smoothly over her lips, softening the hard-edged remains of her lipstick.

Her reflection was suddenly fresh and glowy. She hadn't seen bright eyes or skin like that in so long. It felt otherworldly. Her fingers traced over her forehead and down her cheek; the tip of her fingernail slipped under the edge of her bottom lip and a smile crested. The anticipation of seeing Emmett made her feel lightly embarrassed. Even though there was no one to see the goofy look on her face—Anna was gone; the shop was empty and quiet—her cheeks pinked and her insides danced.

But just as easily and as quickly as she had thought of letting her guard down, every one of her protective instincts came rushing to the fore. "Get a grip on yourself, Rosalie," she chastened. It would not do to go and fall head-over-heels for this guy. She barely knew him. And what did she know about what he thought of her? That she had rescued him—well, helped him out—in a moment of need, and that he was appreciative. Nothing more.

Still, her mind drifted again to Emmett's touch and the glimpses she had of his body as she tended to his thumb—the dimpled muscle that peeked out of the top of his low slung jeans as he rested on her work table, the flash of stomach under his t-shirt as he held his bleeding hand above his head.

The parade of naked male forms she had endured for a semester in her first life drawing class came to mind. The memory of Vera's salacious grins and active eyebrows brought a smile to her face, but her own mortification still made her blush—just as she had then, for two hours straight every Tuesday, for half a semester.

It wasn't that she couldn't appreciate what she was seeing. But the idea that others might recognize her appreciation seemed unwise. So she managed the blush and made the models into anatomical charts without the labels. _Trapezius. Sartorius. Rectis abdominis. Iliac_ _crest_.

The most magic of them all was that ridge of muscle at a man's waist that even she wasn't immune to: _external abdominal oblique_. From what she had seen, Emmett's left oblique muscle was a fine specimen, indeed. She closed her eyes and slowed the moment she had glimpsed it down in her mind.

_He sat pale and dazed in front of her, staring at his bleeding hand. _

Quickly, she rearranged some of those details in her mind.

_He was not injured..._

...though his arm needed to remain aloft if she wanted to continue to gawk at his stomach...

_...his hand moved to the crown of his head, his fingers languidly brushing over his short hair. _

A few more quick adjustments...

_...color returned to his features and the broad, beguiling smile he had eventually granted her with settled at his mouth. She lingered there for a moment. What color were those lips? Like the inside petals of her mother's favorite dahlias—the ones she grew in the roof garden. Like... _

"Now you're being totally ridiculous, Rosalie."

_Emmett's smile softened..._

She felt her breath leave her chest.

_She trailed her eyes down from his lips to the hem of his shirt. A long triangle of lightly tanned skin cut between the bottom of his shirt and the top of his underwear. _

_Briefs_, she decided. _Or maybe boxer briefs._She smiled and quietly sighed .

_The waistband of Emmett's jeans dipped just below the thick, white elastic band of his underwear, and straight, fine hair skimmed across his stomach. The deep slant of muscle above his hip pointed down, down, down._

She found herself wondering:_ What if I weren't me? What if I had done more than just stare? _Of course, because she could be whomever she wanted behind the safety of closed eyes, she was not Rosalie. She was some brave person that she had never met before.

She reached up to the peony that was tucked in her hair. She was brave. She made that adjustment to the memory, as well. Behind her eyelids she stood in front of Emmett leaning into his knees—just as she leaned into the sink.

_She fingered the delicate petals at her neck and his dark blue eyes cast back-and-forth between her face and the flower. His hand continued to rub down to his neck as he watched her. The edge of his shirt lifted and sank with the movement._

_When she reached for his stomach his eyes followed her closely. How easy it was to trail a finger over that ridge of muscle. The thrill of singing nerves shot up her arm and across her chest as she settled her thumb at the worn leather of his belt. Her fingers skipped up and down over the ridge of his oblique. A tight pulse settled between her legs._

_Feeling breathless, she leaned more firmly into his knee and a light flutter of pleasure blossomed as she did. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise and Emmett's eyes came back to hers. He rested his hand lightly at her hip and curved his fingers softly around her waist. She leaned into him more, and again was rewarded with the flutter, only more intense. A queer wave of fatigue crept up the back her legs from her knees and she sank toward him more. _

_Emmett moved the hand at his neck to hers. His fingers trailed lightly up and down the ligament at her throat while his thumb traced the edge of her jaw. Rosalie tilted her head back into his hold, her lips parting. It felt so good. His knee moved gently against her and she gasped as an unexpected shock shot through her._

Her eyes snapped open and she stepped away from the sink. She took in a deep breath and brought her hand to her chest, trying to settle her frantic heart. She would never look at that sink the same way again.

The face in the mirror was flushed—lips moist. That was not someone else.

That was her.

—::—

If it was at all possible, Rosalie felt even more in a daze than she had all day. She glided around the shop going through the motions of her closing routine. All the while, though, she was remembering what had happened in the bathroom, or what had almost happened.

_That was... that was..._

It was intense, is what it was. If she closed her eyes, the memories assaulted her. She had imagined it so clearly that it had become real. She shook her head, trying to hold the images at bay. How absolutely embarrassing.

_But still... _she thought, brushing her hand low over her stomach. It had felt... good. Imagined as it was, it had felt nice to have hands on her. Emmett's hands. It had felt good to feel _something_. To not feel nervous. To not want to withdraw. To feel brave.

And what she had felt against his knee—against the sink? That had felt good, too. Incomplete, but really good. The faint echo of a quiver settled low in her abdomen and she pressed her thighs together. Maybe tall, dark and handsome had a face now.

She came to a stop in front of her work table. Alice's arrangement sat, waiting to be delivered across the street. She wrapped her hands tightly around the vase, took a deep breath and headed for the door.

_Brave_, she thought.

—::—

"I thought you might stop by tonight, so, I got you a sandwich, too." Alice smiled, broad and excited. "Hungry?"

Rosalie stood at the door, flowers in hand. "Ummm..." The scene wasn't much different from the first time she had been in the shop. Edward's mouth was full of sandwich. Alice was looking at her like she was an unopened birthday present. Garrett just smiled, welcoming her in.

Emmett, however, was nowhere to be seen.

"The sign says..."

She turned to face the source of the growl. Emmett came stalking from the back of the shop, but when he saw her his pace slowed and a tender smile played at his lips.

"Rosalie."

He was removing glasses as he approached. _Glasses? _A quiet sigh escaped her. _Hot, nerdy glasses._She gripped the vase and smiled tightly.

"Emmett."She rolled her shoulders incrementally, trying to free herself of an uncomfortable pinch she felt over her shoulder blades. She was so tense. _Relaxrelaxrelax. _"How's your thumb?"

"Better," he said, lifting it up to show her. He rubbed the bandage against the pads of his fingers and she breathed slowly out of her nose remembering his fingers on her own—remembering how they felt in her mind, on her hip, on her neck. "The Super Glue really did the trick."

Out of the corner of her eye she could see the others, watching them like a tennis match. _Breathe. Breathe. _"I'm so glad."

Emmett's mouth pulled up in a lopsided smile and he nodded incrementally. The depth of the blue in his eyes and the slow motion rhythm of his impossibly long eyelashes stunned Rosalie momentarily and she remembered the look on his face as she had leaned into his knee. She felt the pulse return to the apex of her thighs. It was like a scene from one of the hideous bodice rippers that Vera loved to torture her with by reading out loud. She was actually weak in the knees.

In an act of perfect timing, Alice stepped between the two of them. Rosalie released another breath, pushing it all the way out until her lungs were empty. When she drew cool, fresh air in, she relaxed another measure.

"What's this?" Alice asked, taking the arrangement out of Rosalie's hands. "It's beautiful." Alice's eyebrows were raised and Rosalie noticed for the first time that the lines of the tattooed hearts were different colors, not black. Aubergine. Indigo. Claret.

"They're for you." Relief continued to creep back in as Rosalie basked in the joy rolling off Alice.

"For me?" Her smile was nearly reflective.

Nodding, Rosalie said, "For helping me at the market."

"Oh, wow." Alice's eyes closed and her eyebrows drew together, like she was listening for something—something she could barely hear.

Emmett slowly approached, stopping next to Rosalie. "They would have been here this morning, but I dropped the one she sent over with Tyler. Hence the thumb."

A wave of understanding washed over Alice. Like something that had been bothering her had suddenly made itself clear. "I, I, I… wow," she stuttered, her eyes darting back and forth between the flowers and Rosalie. "You really didn't have to. I'm so happy you did—no one's ever given me flowers before—but you didn't have to."

"No one's ever given you flowers?" Garrett asked, rolling forward. He seemed genuinely confused.

"No," Alice answered, shrugging.

Rosalie had her own reasons for making the arrangement, but it was so nice to learn it meant even more to Alice. "Well, it was my pleasure to be the first," she said, lightly touching Alice's wrist.

"That's what she said!" Edward guffawed and a collective grumbling rose up from the rest of them.

"You know, it turns out it actually does get old," Emmett said, glaring at Edward. "Why don't we declare a moratorium on 'that's what she said' tonight?"

Edward lifted his lip in a mock sneer and rolled his eyes. "Fine." One hand went for his hair, while the other reached for his sandwich. He took a huge bite and sat down.

"Rosalie, come have a seat and eat your sandwich," Alice said. Alice stuck her tongue out at Edward—which he returned—as she settled the flowers on the reception desk. "I got turkey. It seemed… safest."

"That sounds perfect," Rosalie said, making her way to the couch. The room seemed primed. For what she wasn't sure, but it felt like striking a match and waiting to see if the sulfur would catch.

Then a hand settled at the small of her back—Emmett's hand—and a current that was both hot and cold radiated outward from his touch. She tried to remain… neutral. It was the only word that came to mind, because she felt split down the middle. Half of her fought leaning into his hand, the other half fought the need to go rigid and edge away. What she did instead, was make her way to the couch, governing the few steps she had to take so his hand stayed exactly where he had placed it.

"I didn't know you wore glasses," she said, turning her head slightly to look up at him. He was hanging the thick-rimmed glasses on the collar of his shirt, but his other hand never left her back. Another small of smile graced his lips.

"Only when I'm tattooing. Otherwise, the detail work gives me a headache."

'Ahh…" she said, continuing toward the couch. Garrett was clearing some magazines away so she could sit. She felt her heartbeat in her skin—thumping, thumping, thumping. When she turned to sit Emmett's fingers trailed across her back and over her hip. Her gasp was hidden in the rush of air that left her chest as she dropped onto the couch.

Over sandwiches and potato chips, they debated which of Esme's tasty creations was king. They tallied how many times Alice's weekly tattoo intuition had proved itself right: three. Rosalie laughed with them as they described the day's customers and their odd behavior. So far, no one had topped the woman who had asked Garrett to tattoo the floral design off a box of Maxi pads on her back. Her position in their hall of shame was secure.

It was easy.

Their conversation wove together in a lazy tide. The ebb and flow didn't make Rosalie feel like an outsider. It felt comfortable. Effortlessly, they pulled her in and let her hang back as she needed. She hadn't been so at ease around people since she shared an apartment with Vera—maybe not even then. Really, maybe she had only felt that with her parents, or with her father, in the workroom or at the flower market. She found herself slumped back into the comfortable cushions of the couch, laughing until her sides hurt, smiling until she teared-up. She felt bliss. Happy.

"So, what does it mean?" Alice asked, gently spinning the flowers on the desk.

Rosalie bit her lip, trying to decide how to answer. As relaxed as she felt, she still wasn't sure how much of herself she wanted expose.

"It's definitely a thank you," she managed. She took a moment's pause, trying to think of what else to say.

"The brain-looking flower, cockscomb, means _joyous affection_, right?" Emmett said, leaning forward to look at found it hardto contain her surprise, or look away. It seemed they both had been Googling. Did he know what all of the flowers meant? Thesame minute smile rose to his lips. She found herself humming Nat King Cole in her head.

"A cock comb?" Edward chuckled.

Rosalie couldn't help her eye roll or incredulous smile. Leaning back into his seat, Emmett grinned and she knew he had done it on purpose. He had set the snare and Edward had taken the bait. Now the full message in those flowers could stay just between her and Alice. Emmett had just saved her from having to bare herself in front of all of them—if she didn't want to.

"You can't help yourself, can you?" Alice asked, shaking her head.

"No. He can't." Garrett confirmed, and they all laughed. Edward shrugged, denying nothing, but laughing, too.

"It's also called Celosia," Rosalie said. "And yes, Emmett is right." She dropped her chin as a blush crept up her face. _Just do it_, the thought. "It's just to let you know…" She took a deep breath and looked up at Alice. "…that I want to be friends."

Over Alice's shoulder, Emmett was looking at her strangely… like her declaration pleased him.

"Yes! Of course! I want to be friends, too! I mean, I thought we already were."

"Yes. I think so." Rosalie giggled, self-consciously. She shrugged and swept her arm toward the arrangement that Alice was still spinning. "This is just what I do."

Tiny Alice pulled her to her feet, flinging her arms around her. "And I love it. Thank you!"

Emmett and Garrett stared awkwardly at the emotional display. They were both smiling, but clearly didn't know what to do with themselves in response. But Edward jumped up and joined the hug, lifting both of them off the ground.

"Girls, girls! I'm so glad we did this!" he sang, bouncing them up and down.

Alice wiggled an arm free and punched him in the arm, hard. "Edward!" she shreiked.

"Ow, Small One! Your knuckles are sharp," he yelped, dropping them abruptly. Rosalie stumbled and out of nowhere, Emmett was there to steady her.

"Thank you," she stammered as he smiled down at her.

Emmett squeezed her elbow before stepping back. A moment later, she took her seat. Maybe she knew more than she thought she did. Maybe head-over-heels wasn't such a remote possibility.

"I learned something new today," she said, smoothing the skirt of her dress. "A garlic tattoo will ward off negativity." The words rushed out of her and she saw Emmett's eyes make a beeline for the peony at her neck. She returned the intensity of his gaze. _I __G__oogled, too. I trade my meaning for yours, _she thought._ Brave._

"Mmmmhmmmm," Edward mumbled with yet another huge bite of sandwich in his mouth. "Garlic is powerful stuff." He took a drink and wiped the back of his hand gracelessly over his lips. "Think about it. Why else would people wear it around their neck to ward off vampires," he chuckled. "They're as negative as you can get."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**Thanks to annagray for inspiring Rosalie's shop assistant. And to all of you that have been reading and reviewing. Reviews make RL pains in the asses feel a little less painful.**

**Just for some clarity, in case you didn't catch it:**

**Floriography Meanings:**

**Peony::Bashful**

**Celosia/Cockscomb::Joyous Affection**

**Allium/Garlic flower::one, unity**

_**Hanakatoba/Japanese Floriography) Meanings (often used in tattooing):**_

**Peony::Brave, noble**

**Allium/Garlic flower::strength and protection against negativity**

**Celosia/Cockscomb::Affectation, artificial and designed to impress**

**I know you're itching for the deviled egg recipe I promised a few chapters ago. It's coming next chapter. In the meantime, I leave you with some recs. All of these are works in progress and totally worth diving into. Be warned they are majorly addictive:**

**Shelter by moirae (twilight_moirae on twitter) So much to love: all the Vamp and sexy unexpectedness.**

**In the Debris by BelieveItOrNot (BelieveItOrNott on twitter) Beautiful, heart breaking E/B and OOC, V/J. Victoria is me.**

**High Fidelity by IReenH (ajapersuasia on twitter) This a second time rec'ing this. It makes me talk out loud at FFn. It makes me feel faint.**


	7. Chapter Seven::Aster::Love and Trust

A/N:

Apologies ahead for a long A/N. If you want, you can skip ahead but E/B fans might not want to.

There was a delay. It was mostly related to my participation in PTB SmutU. Assignments every week. Lots of reading and reviewing. The ladies that are participating had to do without me this last week, though, because I decided to chuck all responsibility to "school" and finish this chapter.

However, it was not all a waste. For those of you who have crossed over from E/B to read my little R/Em, you will find a treat in my completed assignments. They are all Marked Indelibly Edward and Bella. Check them out if you're interested.

**RillaotValley**, **Zaza724** got me into this mess. Well, it all started with Rilla's deep dark confession, at least. They read for me and let me ramble on and on in RL about all this stuff. It's awesome. And it keeps my husband and co-workers sane.

**IReenH, Moirae, Dragonfly336, BelieveItOrNot, ShellisThimbles **are the ladies of the WC (The Dastardly TransContinental Prose Society). We stoke one another's motivation and creativity late into my evening. They rock it. Read all their stuffs!

**Moirae **is also my sister from another mister.

Finally, a shockingly loud shout out to **RaindropSoup**, for she has taken me and my inconsistent use of punctuation on. Mrs. Powell, my ninth grade English teacher ruined me. Her red pen made my comma-spliced pages bleed, and from then on I have underused/misused punctuation. Soup has been furiously reading and marking up chapters 1-6 in order to catch up to me. She is now, officially, my Beta. (She did not Beta this A/N, BTW.)

They're all my Beebses.

I don't own Twilight, but wish I did. If that were the case I could hire contractors to complete all my house projects for me. Or I would have been able to buy a projectless house in the first place.

...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7::Aster::Love and Trust<strong>

Black-pepper strawberry rhubarb crumble has a very specific smell. And if Garrett's chuckling mumbles intermingled with a soft husky giggle weren't an indicator, the smell of that crumble alone was notice enough that Emmett's mother was nearby.

The smell was more than tangy fruit and sugar and butter. It was home and childhood. It was life before he'd fucked up. It was Friday afternoons with his mom and a big glass of milk.

Emmett ducked into his office and dropped his messenger bag on his desk.

"Emmett?"

Garrett's mumbles cracked into a full-blown laugh, and Emmett waited, rubbing his hand roughly over his face. The love and admiration he felt for his mom had no bounds. But he needed to prepare himself. Charlotte's voice, tempered by three hundred miles and the slight static of a less than ideal mobile phone connection, was nothing like Charlotte face-to-face.

"Emmett?" Her quiet, throaty voice was closer.

He took a last deep breath and swung smoothly into the hallway, only to be halted by a pair of delicate hands at his chest.

"Whoa there, Em. You almost ran me over."

"Mom," he said sweeping her up into a tender hug. "You surprised me."

"No, I didn't," she teased, swatting him. "And even if I did, you aren't."

Emmett smiled at his mother's ability to cut straight to the truth. She wasn't one for niceties. _Say it like it is_, had been her motto for some time, and even at half his size, her presence was as large as his.

"You brought crumble," he said, setting her down. "You know, Edward will be here any minute. How much is left?"

"There's another one in the fridge. I know how that boy can eat. There's enough for all of you."

There was no mistaking that Emmett was Charlotte McCarty's son. It was clearly mapped in their dark hair, deep-set, blue eyes and dimples. Where Emmett's dimples cut gracefully into both of his cheeks, Charlotte only had one, but it was a perfect copy that was now in full bloom, along with her impish grin. With his arm around her shoulder, Emmett guided her back to the front of the shop.

"Look who turned up." Garrett chuckled, scraping a spoon methodically over his plate.

"Why don't you just lick it clean, Gar?" Emmett ribbed. "It'll take less time."

The door at the back of the shop slammed shut. Edward's voice preceded him only by seconds. "Charlotte? Is there any left for me?"

"Well, hello to you, too." Stepping between Edward and the crumble, Charlotte raised an eyebrow and opened her arms. He stooped down and gave her a half-hearted hug, all the while peering over her shoulder at the Pyrex dish on the reception desk.

Charlotte patted him on the back and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Look at me," she commanded. Edward forced his eyes to her face. "Save a decent size piece for both Emmett and Alice and you can have the rest." The boyish, crooked grin that overtook Edward's face made even Emmett smile. "Emmett and I will go get everyone some milk and coffee."

As Emmett pushed the shop door open, Charlotte turned and made one last decree. "And Edward, do not touch the crumble in the fridge."

—::—

Charlotte threaded her arm through Emmett's as they strolled casually down the street. "So, you know, if you would call me back, I wouldn't have to show up like this."

Emmett took in a slow breath, looking down at his mother. She kept her eyes focused straight ahead, giving him the space to consider his answer. It had been more than a week since they'd spoken.

"Things have been really busy." At first, that was all it had been, and Charlotte could usually let a few days slide. "But, I have had a lot on my mind," he admitted.

Emmett lifted his hand slightly and traced the tip of his index finger over the thin scab on his thumb. It was Saturday. Four days since he'd bled on Rosalie's floor. The scab was starting to fade. But everything else felt more pronounced.

Charlotte's head turned incrementally. Her brows came together and then cleared. She brought her other hand to Emmett's arm and squeezed. "You're not drinking." It was a declarative statement, not a question.

"No."

"But ... you've thought about it."

He didn't know how she knew. Maybe it was the year of watching him self-destruct right under her nose. Her year of denial. Or the years that followed ... In the same way that stale booze wafted off a drunk, Emmett's mental transgressions were obvious to Charlotte.

"Yes," he answered, looking away. "I didn't get as far as wanting it, but I thought about it. How the bottle would feel in my hand ..."

Charlotte squeezed his bicep, rubbing her fingers over his arm in assurance. She didn't ask him to explain. They had been there. After she declared war on Emmett's depression and changed the locks, she riddled him with questions and demands every day. _Did you do this? Did you do that? Have you thought about this? Do this, and this, and this._ Her intent had been to take control—to defeat his demons and fix him—but all she had managed was to drive him away.

The last time Charlotte locked him out it was with a duffle bag in hand. He hadn't lasted six months under her new rules. So, he crashed on Marcus's floor, reveling in the stink of his own indigence. After a week away, he went back home, expecting that his absence would have broken her resolve. It hadn't.

Not long after that shock to the system, he managed to find the job at Maggie's tattoo shop. He swept floors, dumped trash, cleaned the bathroom. He was 'the bitch'—that was what Maggie's tattooers called him. He did every shit job they threw at him, and his anger fueled his dedication to the crappiest of tasks. It earned him his old bed back, but with that came the cadence of his mother's constant scrutiny. When he was making enough to rent a bed in the back of the shop, he had moved out for good. With the extra he'd saved sleeping at home for that short while, he paid Maggie to tattoo the demon on his arm.

He had expected relief when he was out from under Charlotte's thumb—free of the oppression of her constant caring. It didn't come. When she worked it out with Maggie to pay for his apprenticeship, it made it possible for him to move out of the storage closet, but it ate at him. Every bit of aid, every helpful suggestion, no matter how needed or how right, embedded in his skin like shrapnel.

He floundered. The expectations that had always seemed natural to set so high had come crashing down around him the night of the accident. Before that, he had never considered the possibility that he might not live up to them. Aside from a few lost football games, he had never failed at anything he'd set his mind to. Expectations weren't something he had to strive for; he just met them—exceeded them—he always did.

After he moved out, though the pressure was off, the drive to keep it together was gone, too. It was so much easier to live up to what he thought Charlotte expected of him—failure.

He spent three years wasted, trying to escape the miserable ache that her relentless devotion had forged in him. Three years, trying to understand why she wouldn't give up. Three years, believing there was no way he wouldn't disappoint her again. How she could still love him after all he had done? What would it take? What was the lowest thing he could do before she had enough—before she quit trying? Before she gave up and stopped loving him?

It turned out there was not a thing.

As they approached the market, Emmett could see Esme through the window. Her smiling face was framed by stacked cans and boxes, and the specials posters that were taped in the window. Edward had made them for her. They were stylized, sort of tattoo-like—purposeful but attractive.

Esme was talking to someone out of view. Emmett waved, and she smiled broadly, raising her eyebrows, but she continued to talk. He pulled the door open for his mom and they both entered the market.

"... they work best on gas. Do you have gas?" Esme asked as she stepped out from behind the counter. Emmett chuckled, knowing that Edward would be sorry to have missed such a setup. No answer came to her question, but Esme wasn't waiting for it, either. "Charlotte! Emmett didn't say you were coming into town."

"He didn't know," Charlotte said, embracing the older woman. "He's been 'busy' with 'a lot on his mind.' He hasn't returned my calls in over a week. So, I parachuted in for the weekend."

As Emmett rolled his eyes at his mother and shoved his hands in his pockets, he heard a shuffle and saw a flash of turquoise out of the corner of his eye. Turning to see what it was, he found Rosalie standing shyly at the end of one of the aisles. She was cradling an espresso maker in her hands.

While his mother continued to titter with Esme, Emmett took a step closer, hands still in his pockets.

"Hey."

"Hi." She dropped her head, blushing. How just saying 'hi' to him could make her blush blew him away. It did things to him. Inappropriate things. "How's your thumb?"

Emmett pulled his healing left hand out of his pocket. Taking another step forward, he held his thumb out to her.

"See," he said, rubbing his finger and thumb together. "Pretty much healed."

While she examined his thumb, Emmett took Rosalie in. The contrast between her pinked cheeks and neck and the bright turquoise of her shirt was captivating. He tried to engage her by focusing in on the soft blue of her eyes, but she wouldn't look at him for more than a few milliseconds at a time.

"I love your Kurta, Rosalie," Charlotte said from over Emmett's shoulder. He dropped his head, smiling. It was very likely that she had all the dish now. She and Esme didn't see one another frequently, but they worked fast. "Where did you get it?"

"Thank you." The pink on Rosalie's neck ticked up another notch. "It's vintage. My mother's vintage."

"The color is beautiful on you," Charlotte said, moving closer. "It brings out your eyes." Emmett could feel his mother's gaze shifting back and forth between him and Rosalie. "A kurta is a traditional tunic worn in India," Charlotte said pointedly to Emmett.

"Yeah, Mom. I got that when you said she was beautiful." Somehow they were in the middle of a conversation and he hadn't even made any introductions. At this point, it was pointless from a practical standpoint, but he started to try anyway.

Charlotte continued on, though. "I didn't actually say she was beautiful, Emmett. I said the kurta was." It was Emmett's turn to blush. "But you are, dear," she said, turning to Rosalie.

"Thank you." Rosalie's head dropped for a second, her mouth settling into a pursed smile. Was that embarrassment? For him or herself? Lifting her head, she stood up more straight, pushing her chin out a bit. She looked more confident, though the color on her skin and the smile remained.

"And, Rosalie ..." Emmett sighed, turning to his mother. His tone was resigned. "This is my mom, Charlotte."

Rosalie reached a hand out to Charlotte, juggling the espresso maker. It tipped precariously and started to fall, but Emmett's unconscious draw to her had put him in such close proximity that he caught it easily.

The look on his mother's face didn't escape him.

A short time later, while Charlotte returned to the shop with the milk and four coffees, Emmett walked Rosalie, with her purchases, back to her building. If they hadn't come across her, she would have made it on her own—maybe a little awkwardly, but she could have done it. Yet when she started to try to balance the burden, three bags of food and the espresso maker seemed like too much. Emmett stepped in, taking all the bags from her and offering to walk her back to her shop.

"You really don't have to," she said, gesturing to the bags he held as they waited for a car to pass.

Stepping in the street in front of her, he chuckled. "Despite the assumptions that might be made about my profession, I am a gentleman."

Rosalie stopped midway across the street. Standing on the dividing line, she was a montage of complementary color: orange-yellow, white, turquoise, and white-blond. Hugging the espresso maker to her, she reached out and placed her hand on his arm. "Oh, I wasn't implying ..."

He smiled at her warmly. When they were alone in her workroom, she seemed so much more confident … or more of a flirt, maybe. He wanted to push her back to that place. He wanted to see what she would do. "Rosalie, I was just kidding. It's my pleasure to help you … and I think I might have just wanted to see you blush again."

On command, her face flooded with pink, and his heart bucked in his chest to see it. It was what he imagined Dusty Rose ink might look like against her fine, fair skin.

Standing there with his hands full of groceries and wanting nothing more than to drop them and trace the edge of that blush down the side of her neck, Emmett knew that somewhere between the Super Glue and this moment he had crossed a line. It was no surprise that he was attracted to her—well, maybe it was—but what was more surprising was that he wanted to act on it.

They finished crossing the street, and as they stepped onto the curb, Rosalie ducked her head down and dug into her purse with purpose. He had assumed they would just walk to the shop, but that assumption seemed silly as he watched her unlock the green door and push inside. She wouldn't take her groceries to the shop. She'd take them home.

He hadn't expected to end up in her apartment, and in light of his most recent realization, a part of him felt like it was too soon.

He battled inside. On one hand, feeling ridiculously old-fashioned but also wanting to do this right. This was his first foray into what could be real dating since high school. He didn't know how to do much more than grab women who were throwing themselves at him. Fucking came easy. Courting ... less so.

On top of that, he couldn't stop thinking about what Esme had told him. He didn't want to press too far, too fast. This would have to be on Rosalie's timetable. He wanted to be careful with her.

As she walked ahead of him in the dim light, he shook his head,trying to bring order to his tumbled thoughts.

_Wait. I've already got us dating?_

He could only see the hint of her shape as she ascended the stairs in front of him. There was nothing particularly sexy about her outfit—it didn't reveal anything at all—but the sway of her hips had a hypnotic quality, and he couldn't take his eyes off her. She took the steps one at a time and rambled about his helping her: That it was totally unnecessary, but that she appreciated it. As each foot landed, the tunic pulled tight on the opposite hip. She walked through a shaft of golden light, and he realized the fabric wasn't as opaque as he had thought. Through the bright turquoise, he could see the faint outline of her bra and the contrast of her skin against the white of her pants.

When they reached the first landing, he walked into her before he could stop himself.

"Oh, God. Sorry."

"You're not wearing your glasses, are you?" Alone in the dimly lit stairwell, she seemed so much more relaxed and confident than she had just a moment prior.

"I'm a little farsighted, not blind."

Rosalie's mouth shifted, containing her amusement in a thin smile.

Emmett mirrored the gesture. "I'm just distracted, I guess."

They stood for a moment in front of the second floor apartment door. Rosalie's mouth opened and closed a few times like a small-mouthed fish. Emmett's eyebrows climbed as he waited for her to speak. Instead, she turned and headed for the next flight of stairs.

He followed, chuckling and glancing back at the apartment door. "So, why do you live on the third floor?"

Rosalie's steps faltered slightly, and Emmett felt the back of his neck go cold. _Of course ... Idiot._

"The light is better on the third floor ... better for my studio space." She continued up the stairs, her pace faster than before. "I thought, too, thatit would be nice to be closer to the roof. But I haven't kept up my mother's garden like I hoped I might."

"You have a roof garden?"

"Used to," she said, jingling her keys in her hand. "I'm thinking about getting it back in shape. It would be nice in the summer. But it's a lot of work."

Again, he tried to sort through his brain. So much information in such a short time. _An apartment she avoids. Because of her parents? A studio space. What kind of work did she do? A garden on the roof?_ This woman was becoming more solid and real before his eyes. But all of these small revelations only made the remaining gaps more tangible. He wanted to know more. He felt desperate to, but he held himself back from pelting her with more questions.

"You know, if you needed muscle or help with clearing out, I think I know where to find some cheap labor." When she reached the top of the stairs, Rosalie turned. As she looked down at him, a soft smile materialized. It was small and gentle, but she smiled with her whole face—with her eyes. Emmett felt a warmth spread across his chest. He cleared his throat. "We'd have to figure out how to get Garrett up there. You might need to give them beer, though, and … let them enjoy the view?"

"I could manage that, I think." Her smile was one of somber amusement. After a moment, she turned to the door. One-handed, she sorted through the keys on the ring and pushed one into the lock. Before the door was open more than a crack, two kittens scrambled over one another to get into the hallway.

"Well, hello …" Emmett chuckled.

"Meet Cam," Rosalie said with a sigh, pointing to the sleek, blonde-colored cat, before she pointed to its white and black companion, "and Bean." The kittens wove in and out of her legs, rubbing their cheeks and the sides of their mouths on her calves. She bent over, and one after the other, they each walked under the curve of her hand, from nose to tail.

"Look …" she said, standing again and chewing on her top lip. "The truth is the second floor is full of ghosts. I ..."

Emmett lifted one of his grocery-laden hands and shook his head. "Rosalie, you don't have to tell me anything you're not ready to."

She nodded, her face softening, but she frowned slightly, pulling her brows together, and continued to worry her lip.

The cats, seeing they weren't going to get the attention they sought from her, turned to Emmett. Squatting down, he released the groceries, and they immediately filled his hands. He petted them thoroughly, scrubbing a finger over the bridges of their noses, scratching the curves of their ears. For nearly a minute, the only sound in the hallway was the twin-thrum of the kittens purrs.

"I couldn't go back." The words rushed out of Rosalie's mouth.

Emmett looked up to find her eyes focused at the floor. From the angle, it seemed as though she was looking right through to the second floor, surveying the other apartment and its contents from above. He brought his eyes back to the cats, but every bit of his attention zeroed in on Rosalie.

"After my parents died, I couldn't move back in there. I just left it. I got new stuff. Stuff … without memories … and I moved in here."

Emmett looked up again as she spoke, his fingers running over the tiny skulls of the cats that had sat down in front of him. The look on Rosalie's face seemed incredulous, almost as if she couldn't believe what she had done herself. As if she couldn't believe she was telling him.

"What I said before—light, the garden? It's true, but it's not the reason why. I was … escaping."

Rosalie turned her soft blue gaze back on him, her face brimming with old pain and what he could only interpret as fear or desperation. This moment of revelation had come upon both of them so unexpectedly. Emmett cleared his face. He wanted nothing more than for her to feel that it hadn't been a mistake to speak those words. That she didn't need to worry about what he was thinking of her. Her gaze followed him as he stood.

He wasn't sure what to do. Every part of him wanted to put his hands on her. To give her grounding and assurance. He wanted to hold her. But she might have misinterpreted his hesitation, because she dropped her eyes and turned slightly away.

Realizing his mistake, he stepped forward and cupped a hand around her elbow. "Rosalie," he said, drawing her eyes back to his. "I can't pretend to know what that was like. I can't know how it felt or what I would have done." Her brows relaxed and she turned toward him. "Everyone deals with pain differently."

Even as he said the words, he thought about himself and Garrett. About his mom. No two people's pain was the same—even if it originated from the same thing.

"My grandparents didn't understand." Rosalie shook her head slightly. "My grandmother said it was an overreaction. I heard her tell Grandpa I was hysterical."

Emmett shook his head. He wasn't going to badmouth her family, but he couldn't let that stand. "People do what they think they need to survive. And that's what you did." He shifted ever so slightly closer, sliding his hand up the back of her arm. "Everyone has to make their own choices, not someone else's. Sometimes they make easy sense; sometimes they don't."

_Sometimes they're destructive_, he thought, sifting through how he had dealt with his own pain. He lost himself for a moment, and when his focus came back, Rosalie was looking at him like he was a crossword puzzle and she was trying to solve his clues.

"If you're lucky," he said, "you come out on the other side and you know a little more." Rosalie nodded, looking down through the floor to her family's old apartment again. She nodded and nodded, sucking the skin under her lower lip between her teeth. Emmett was struck by her beauty—even with such a peculiar look on her face—and he pulled her close, lifting his chin over the top of her head.

After a beat of hesitation, she eased into him, putting her ear to his chest and bringing her hand to his forearm. He watched as the tips of her fingers found what looked to be the exact outer edges of his hidden demon tattoo. _Did she see that?_ He thought she must. Instead of making him feel anything close to the shame that made him get it in the first place, her touch was like a salve. Emmett found himself relaxing, too.

How long they stood there, he wasn't sure. It wasn't measured in minutes but by the number of times the crown of Rosalie's head press up against the underside of his jaw in time with his breath.

It might have gone on longer, but the sharp sting of kitten claws through the leg of his jeans brought Emmett back to the reality of the hallway. He looked down and saw the blonde cat defying gravity by scaling his leg like a rock climber. "Ow, fuck …"

"Cam," Rosalie snapped, without leaving Emmett's embrace. "Cam!" The cat looked between the two of them with its hindquarters dangling. Emmett imagined if the thing could talk, that it would shrug its shoulders and say, _What?_

Rosalie slowly bent over, and he reluctantly let her go. She detached Cam from his leg and stood. "Would you like a coffee?" she asked, brandishing her new espresso maker and the cat.

_Yes_, he thought. _I just want to … hang out with you ... know you._ But instead he said, "I really should go. My mom's got coffee and crumble waiting for me at the shop. Rain check?" he asked, the hope clear in his voice. "I'd like to see your studio sometime."

Rosalie smiled, another blush blooming over the apples of her cheeks, and Emmett bent to retrieve the groceries from the floor.

"No, Emmett," Rosalie said, letting the cat jump from her arms and reaching forward for the bags. "I've got this. Go back to your mom." Emmett hesitated, reluctantly handing over one of the bags. "Really … go," she said. "Getting this up the steps was the biggest help. Thank you."

—::—

He still hadn't quite decided what he thought about his mother just parachuting in, but when he walked into his apartment and it smelled like her magic meatloaf, he decided it didn't much matter.

"Dinner will be ready in twenty, Emmett."

"Thanks, Mom." He snaked an arm around her shoulders and dropped a kiss on the crown of her head. "I miss your meatloaf."

His impersonal apartment rarely smelled homey. Emmett had put a great deal more of himself into the shop than he had this cookie-cutter space. The only time he spent there was to sleep and shower. It was a place to keep his clothes. He didn't even own a TV. The sort of utilitarian, eighties-threadbare construction left him feeling hollow, so there was no reason to spend more time there than necessary. Besides, the rent was cheap, which left him more money to put back into Miss P's; so, for now, it was worth it. What he really wanted, though, was to live over his shop, the way Rosalie did hers. How nice it would be to just walk up the stairs at the end of the day—to live on the street where his whole life was anyway.

"I can give you the recipe, hon. It's not difficult." His mother looked up at him from one of his tattooing magazines. Her eyes were twinkling.

"But if I made it, it wouldn't be yours." Emmett smiled back, feeling light—in a way, a momentary reprieve from the wear and tear of the day. "I'm just going to jump in for a quick shower. Long day, today. I'm hurting."

"Of course. Nineteen minutes."

Still smiling, Emmett closed the door to his tiny bathroom behind him. He pulled back the octopus shower curtain his mom had gotten him for Christmas and set the water to hot. While the room filled with steam, he shed his clothes. Two three-hour clients had his shoulder and lower back singing with pain. His neck hurt, too. A hot shower would make a world of difference, but he needed to think about how to prevent the pain in the first place. He stepped into the shower, hissing as he eased into the hot spray. The water soaked him, making the skin under his ink pink up and the pain and tension of the day wash away.

_Need to talk to Alice and Heidi ... I can't do long sessions back-to-back … should talk to E and Garrett, too ... with Garrett in the chair ... they both need to be careful._

He adjusted the showerhead to jet and aimed it at his shoulder, right where it met his neck. He hung his head and lolled it side to side, stretching his deltoid muscles. Lathering up with shampoo, he gave his whole skull a pressure massage. His thumbs pressed hard into the ridge of bone over and behind his ear. A quiet grunt escaped his lips. Everything little thing he did made him feel a little better.

_Invoicing was gonna be this weekend … but with mom here, it'll have to wait … maybe Monday ... I'll find time. _

He turned and aimed the showerhead lower so it hit the exact right spot on his lower back and hip—the knot that never went away. Leaning into the wall, he let the scalding hot water beat his pain into submission. He twisted his body and stretched, trying to help the wet heat along.

_Need to think about Alice … when and how we're going to do this first tattoo … depends on what Rosalie wants, too … how much detail ... I might have to do some of it myself ..._

The image of his own hands to Rosalie's skin shot through him like a lightning strike. He pressed his eyes hard against his forearm and—as clear as if he was actually doing it—he saw her skin pulled taut between his thumb and forefinger, his iron laying down ink and drawing blood. The familiar ghost of a vibration buzzed up his arm and across his chest.

His breathing jerked to a stop as the feeling slipped down to his dick.

His To-Do list was washed from his mind with the water running down his body. All he could see was Rosalie and her clear, fair skin painted in a blush.

He turned his head toward the door, thinking of his mother in his kitchen. The truth was, if she weren't visiting, he likely would have ended his day this way. Hot shower and an after-work jerk. He put his mom out of his mind. He'd masturbated plenty of times with her in the next room when he was a teenager. This was his house. His shower. So, whatever.

But Rosalie … again, images of what little he had seen of her body bumrushed his mind. The blush in her cheeks … her neck ... collarbones ... the way her clothes pulled tight against her hips ... the curve of her leg where where her calves became her ankles.

He automatically wrapped his hand around himself and shifted slightly to change the target of the shower jet so it hit the burning, knotted muscle at the crest of his ass.

"Ahhhh …." _That feels good. _

He might usually conjure some faceless female body. But he couldn't think about using Rosalie that way, even though she was all he could think about. He loosened his grip slightly, but now that she was on his mind it would be impossible to replace her with some anonymous tits and ass.

A low sound rumbled at the back of his throat. He needed this. His body hurt and he wanted to relax. Like really relax.

He needed to come.

With new determination and some body wash, he took himself in hand again. This would be quick. It needed to be quick. No specifics. Dinner, he guessed, would be ready in less than ten minutes. So, instead of imagining her naked, he focused on how Rosalie made him feel. That electric feeling. That sort of breathless feeling.

He closed his eyes and called up the sensation of her pressed up against him in her hallway. The warmth of her body, and the sensation of her fingertips tracing over his skin. The smell of her tucked under his chin. No more than that and his body responded—and he stroked.

Up.

And down.

It felt good. Really good. Good enough that he could retreat to cold utilitarianism and finish the job without feeling too ashamed. When the curl of pressure and heat started to unfurl, though—when his thighs and arms started to feel weak—the soft blue of Rosalie's eyes hovered in front of him, eyelashes fluttering. The bare, blush pink of her lower lip puckered under the pressure of her teeth.

"God … God. Rose."

—::—

"So what would you be eating for dinner if I wasn't here, Emmett? I saw your cupboards … your fridge—nearly empty."

"I dunno …" Emmett mumbled through a huge bite of meatloaf. He flashed his dimples at his mother, knowing she couldn't resist them. "Cornflakes?"

Charlotte shook her head. "I'm going to make you some meals ahead."

"Mom, I mostly eat at the shop. Esme feeds me well."

" Mmmmhmmm …" she hummed, eyeing him skeptically.

They ate in silence for a moment, which suited Emmett fine. He mom's meatloaf was so good. He pushed the mashed potatoes and carrots into a dam and dunked another bite of meatloaf in the rich gravy.

"So, I'll be going out early tomorrow. What are you up to?"

"Huh?" Emmett was still focused on food, trying to decide which meals he'd ask her to make—since she was offering. He only vaguely noticed her curious tone.

"Are you going in early tomorrow?" Charlotte asked a bit impatiently.

"No. I mean, I'd thought about it, but since you're here …"

"Why don't you sleep in? You work too hard." She patted his arm, flashing a worried smile. "I'll meet you with a late breakfast at the shop ... around 10:30."

The idea of cutting himself some slack and going in a little later sounded appealing, and when Charlotte put another slice of meatloaf on his plate, she sealed the deal. That sounded just right.

"So …" Ah, so, it may have been she was just drugging him with food so she could ply him for information. "Rosalie seems nice."

"Mom, just ask what you want." Emmett smirked, taking another carefully constructed bite of meatloaf, mash, and gravy. "This coy act doesn't become you."

"Touché, fair son. Touché." Charlotte rearranged the salad on her plate. "Esme told me a little bit. She sounds like a lovely girl. Successful. Clearly beautiful. But she's had a hard time …" She cleared her throat. "I know her parents died."

Emmett nodded. Somehow, Esme managed to share people's stories without it feeling invasive. But he wasn't sure he wanted to tell Rosalie's secrets without her permission. It didn't feel right—even if it was his mom.

"And that …" She paused, studying Emmett's face. She looked like she was deciding what to say—or if she should say everything she was thinking. "Well ... Esme said she's been closed off for a long time—with good reason. But that she's been coming out of her shell around you … around all of you."

Emmett continued to chew, over-masticating the food in his mouth as he delayed responding to his mother. What was he going to say? What could he say? So much. Too much.

He looked up at Charlotte, and the uncertainty he felt was reflected back in the concern on her face.

"You care for her."

He dropped his head, studying his fork and now empty plate. "Yes." He nodded. "Yes."

Charlotte stood up and took both their plates into the biscuit- and oak-colored kitchen. She opened the freezer and then the fridge. Emmett saw that she was cutting squares of her crumble and plating them with scoops of vanilla ice cream. She returned to the table and set one of the plates in front of him. She took a bite from her own plate before she spoke again.

"Why does that worry you?"

Emmett scraped thin layers of ice cream onto his spoon and slipped them into his mouth. It was like he was seven again and trying to savor every bit of his mom's dessert before he had to go to bed. A dual avoidance—the end of dessert and the onset of bedtime.

"That obvious?"

"Emmett …" She smiled at him, indulging his attempt to pretend it was no big deal, but he knew better. After that one year of denial, she never let things slide again. If she saw something that didn't seem quite right, she said something. If she had a question, she asked it. At first it was annoying, but once he settled into it, it was sort of freeing, too. No more hiding. Even when he was at his worst, he was honest with his mom about it.

"She's been through so much."

"So have you."

"Not the same, Mom. Not even close."

"Maybe not, but these are things that affected you both … deeply."

"Right, but what happened to her … that wasn't her choice." He shoved his unfinished plate of crumble away and sat back in his chair, sliding low.

"Oh. I see. We're talking about choice."

"Yes."

"And you chose to get drunk and give Garrett those keys—knowing he was drunk, too." Emmett nodded curtly. Her words cut through him, taking his breath away. "And you chose to numb yourself to the consequences of those choices. You chose the drugs. And you chose the alcohol. You chose to shut us all out."

Again, Emmett nodded, taking his cheek between his teeth. He ground the muscle and skin hard between his molars, until tears were pricking at the corners of his eyes and he couldn't tell if it was pain or the truth of his mother's words that was calling them forth.

"Let's get it all out, what you chose." She pressed on him, forcing him to answer. Again, she was not going to let this slide.

"Ok. Yes. I chose that. I chose all of it."

There was no hiding it now. The tears gathered at the edges of his eyes until they spilled over. Emmett chewed at his lips, top and bottom, as he tried to get his emotions under control. He could not look at his mother, but he could see her leaning forward on her forearms, hunching over the table. He knew she wanted his eyes to meet hers, but he just couldn't.

"Emmett. Did you choose to get your shit together? Did you choose to create this life for yourself? To open the shop? To go to Garrett and rebuild your friendship? To get sober?"

Emmett didn't answer. He just crossed his arms over his chest and settled more solidly into the chair. He struggled to swallow the shame and pain threatening to pour out of him, and the muscles in his throat hurt with the effort. From the corner of his eye, he saw his mother reach out.

"Did you choose this?" Charlotte asked, sweeping her fingers over the tree on his arm. "Did you choose to cover that face? Did you choose to have Garrett be the one to do it?"

Emmett looked down at the tree on his arm. Damn her. He'd been avoiding figuring all this out. And now she had gotten him with her emotional logic.

"What are you worried about?"

_That I'm not right for her—no matter how I feel. That my past will scare her, no matter what I've chosen since then. That she wouldn't trust me if she knew._

Emmett sat up, wiping the tears away from his face. He sniffed, trying to avoid wiping snot away, too. Charlotte handed him a napkin, and he blew his nose, loud. When he finished, he leaned over the table, mirroring his mother's position. He crumpled the napkin between his fingers, tearing at its flyaway edges.

"Emmett …" Charlotte released a frustrated breath. She reached forward and took the napkin from his hands before pulling his left hand into both of hers. Emmett felt the tension leech away as she combed his fingers the way she had when he was a little boy. Over and over, she wove her fingers between his and pulled them through to the tips.

"You are amazing," she said. Emmett scoffed, disbelief clear on his face, but Charlotte raised a hand to stop him from going further. "Ah, ah … this is my bully pulpit, and you will listen." She took another deep breath and continued. "You are amazing. You have faced down so much …"

"But Garrett …" he whispered, shaking his head.

"Garrett made his own decisions, and he owns them. You would know this if you ever talked to him about these things. He took those keys. He knew he was drunk. He could have chosen differently."

"But if I had …"

"You can't go back. And you can't make other people's choices for them, Emmett. Just like I couldn't make yours." She sat for a minute; the only sound coming from her was a quick succession of swallows. "You could have died that night … in the years after that. You could have wasted away. I could have lost you in any number of ways." Charlotte closed her eyes, squeezing his hand firmly between hers. "But I didn't. You're healthy—and sober. You are kind and smart. You take care of people. You are the man I knew you could be."

—::—

Emmett woke up feeling wrung out.

If he didn't know that he hadn't had a drop of alcohol in more than seven years, he might have confused the feeling for a hangover.

He rolled over and looked at his alarm clock.

_6:37._

Normally, he would be up already, dressing and heading for the gym or out on a run, but he felt exhausted and unmotivated. Inside, he was still at war. He wanted desperately to see himself as his mother did—as trustworthy, as a good man—and in some ways, he did. When it came to the shop, he was very clear. He was successful. He was responsible. He was a trusted businessman. He could not be those things if he hadn't turned his life around.

But all that felt very different from what his mother had said to him the previous night: _You are the man I knew you could be._ How could that be? Ten years later, he still cycled through his playlist of bad decisions—running them like videos in his head. The nights he spent high or drunk out of his mind. The nights he couldn't remember. The mornings he woke up wondering who was in his bed.

Taking all of that into account, even when he was able to catalog the evidence that showed he had changed, he still felt like a fraud.

_How can you? How can you trust me? You thought you could before, and look what I did … what I became._

_Yes. Look at what you've become._

And could he offer himself to Rosalie, knowing how he had used women before—how he had let them use him? She needed someone she could trust. He wanted to be that man. And when he was with her, he felt like he could be. He couldn't help himself. When she was near, those things that haunted him didn't exist. It wasn't until he was alone and in his own head that he started to worry. _How would I tell her these things? What will she think of me? Could I handle that? _

He could see his mother's frustrated, incredulous, heartbroken expression from every angle as he replayed the evening in his mind, and it sucked the will out of him. He felt like he was sinking into the mattress—so tired from the late night and from the restless sleep. Instead of rolling out of bed, he fumbled for the clock and reset his alarm. The suggestion to meet for a late breakfast sounded really good. He was asleep again before he could fully roll back over.

When he woke up two and a half hours later, he felt more refreshed. The content of the conversation with his mom had settled a little more—less jumbled and unsettling, more intellectual and logical, if not totally understandable.

An hour later, he was unlocking the back door of the shop and dropping his bag and keys on his desk. Buzzing filtered back to the office from the front of the shop.

"Hey, who's here?" he yelled, sifting through some mail.

_Buzz … buzz ..._

"Me ... Garrett …"

_Buzz … buzz … buzz ..._

"I didn't know you had an early customer …"

_Buzz … buzz … buzz … buzz ..._

"Uhhh, special request …"

_Low murmuring and more buzz … buzz … _

Emmett left the mail behind and headed to Garrett's station to see what he was working on. Before he was halfway there, he froze, mid-step. "What the fuck?" The buzzing stopped, and Garrett rolled backward, revealing his customer. "What the fuck are you doing, man? This is my mother."

"Em-mett ..."

"Em, man, I … " Garrett rolled further away, his hands and the iron held far away from him and Charlotte. It was like a police standoff. _Just put the gun down and nobody will get hurt ..._

"Emmett ..." Charlotte's tone was the perfect cocktail of salve and command. Sitting up, she reached her hand out to him. Garrett put his iron down and prepared to leave. "Oh no," she said, reaching her other hand out to him. "We're all going to talk." Turning back to Emmett, she pointed to a nearby stool. "Sit."

Emmett scrubbed his face with his hand. Breathing deeply, he struggled to calm his mind. _What. The. Fuck._ He still felt raw from the previous night. This was … this was really hard to process. _This was her early appointment? Why hadn't she said anything? Why Garrett? Why not me?_

If he was truthful with himself, he knew why not him. He wouldn't have done it. He wouldn't have tattooed her. Taking another cleansing breath, Emmett rolled a stool closer to his mom and took a seat. He looked hard at Garrett before turning to his mom. He wasn't sure what he was feeling. Left out? Betrayed? Or ... just confused?

Garrett rolled forward and, with a wet towel, wiped the ink and blood away from the left side of Charlotte's chest. When he pulled away, Emmett could see the lines of a traditional heart and banner tattoo. It looked like a standard flash, at first. But rather than "MOM," it was his name taking shape on the ribbon that furled over the full, rounded heart. The design was fashioned after a ubiquitous, stereotypical tattoo—the kind that big, burly, cartoon guys might have scrawled over their bicep. This was the tattoo that Charlotte had chosen to place over heart. The irony was not lost on Emmett.

Leaning in, he looked more closely at the work. The details were fine and very typical of Garrett's style. There really was nothing generic about it. Peeking from behind the heart and draped in the ribbon was a doe, a symbol of unconditional love. On the other side, a blue swallow held the banner in its beak—a sign of trust.

People told him stories almost every day about the symbolism behind the tattoos that they asked him to lay down on their bodies—loved ones lost, personal trials overcome, aspirational desires. So many tattoos, so many stories. But without a word of explanation, this one had stolen his breath.

Emmett felt his chest tighten as he looked his mother in the eye. She smiled at him and squeezed his hand. Pressing his lips together in a thin, taut line, he struggled for words. Finally, he settled on reaching over his mother's lap to grab his best friend by the hand. He pulled Garrett toward him and gripped his bicep in a semblance of a hug. "This is really good work, Gar. Beautiful work. Thank you."

* * *

><p>...<p>

A/N:

Charlotte's crumble recipe is based on this: bit. ly/aM5ekO (remove the space)

I make mine gluten free with almond meal. I tend to add a little extra salt and pepper, too. NOMNOMNOM.

Chapter 8 is already in progress.


	8. Chapter Eight::Dahlia::Dignity

**Chapter 8::Dahlia::Dignity**

Spring had completely sprung.

The days were still cool, but warm enough for shorts and a turtleneck sweater or long pants and short sleeves. As she dressed for market mornings, Rosalie remembered how this had been her favorite time of year.

It was a time for a very specific color of green, so new it was almost white. And the smells: the freshly turned soil, the light perfume of early spring blooms, and the dew seeping into everything new that the earth was turning out. It was the smell of the pastoral.

A plan for the roof garden was pinned over her work table. Edward had made the rough sketch on the back of some sandwich wrapping, and it still smelled faintly of prosciutto and mortadella. Next to the plan were four pages torn from her and Emmett's sketchbooks, each labeled for a season. They were filled with gesture drawings of the roof and layered with pasted collages torn from her seed catalog—a varied and bright mosaic of greens, jewel tones, and shocks of orange and yellow.

Over weeks of Esme's sandwich dinners, every one of the friends had had a hand in the plans: furniture made from wooden pallets, an outdoor shower, a cluster of hammocks to read and chill in. Edward had offered to "dress-up" the brick around the roof with some writing. It took some explaining before Rosalie understood that he meant to paint something for her as graffiti.

She liked all of these ideas and was already dreaming of evenings spent with her friends dining under the stars, but her real focus was on the plants. She had planned for a small vegetable garden; the rest was meant for ornamentals. Against a backdrop of evergreens, she had developed a complex schedule of blooming perennials and annuals. With calculated precision and some degree of luck, the garden would be in full bloom from spring all the way through autumn.

Adelaide Hale's favorite dahlia, with inside petals the same color of Emmett's lips, was the star of the summer plan.

Since the morning he had held her outside her apartment door, Rosalie had floated and bumped through her days. She could only manage to keep three-quarters of her brain focused on real world issues. The other twenty-five percent was completely taken up by Emmett.

It was not a contiguous twenty-five percent, though. It was moments sandwiched between the most mundane of tasks: helping customers, putting arrangements away in the cooler, trimming flowers at her work table, talking to Anna about ordering oasis and florist's tape. Between these everyday acts, something would trigger her—words, smells, or a flash of color—and she would suddenly find herself in a waking dream: Emmett's mouth descending toward hers, a jolt of something zipping through her chest as his dahlia-colored lips brushed against hers.

It stole her breath away.

It wasted her sense of her corporeal-self in space.

It made her cut corners short and run into walls and tables.

When she had time alone—after closing, or when she was finally home—she found herself shutting her eyes and trying to call forth these moments of fantasy—trying, in breathless determination, to recreate the same flashes of non-memory that had so easily snuck up on her. But she could not make it happen at will. Only at night, when she collapsed into bed, exhausted by the mental juggling she had perfected during the day, would he draw her in. Only then could she feel what it was like to open her mouth to him, to tilt her head back and relax into his arms as he showed her how to really kiss.

In the mornings, she would start it all over again.

Initially, she wasn't sure how she would manage to face him. His gentle, smiling, daytime face was in such contrast to how he looked when she closed her eyes. But then there wasn't much she understood about how she related to Emmett—or he to her. Every time—when they would all come together for dinner or she would run into him at the market—she would momentarily cease to breathe. Then the truth would overtake her: there was nothing to be worried about; it was nothing but easy between them.

Lately, though, easy didn't feel like quite enough. It was comfortable, but not enough. Not when she thought about what her mind—and apparently her body—wanted. Not when she thought about those long minutes in her stairwell, or how he looked at her across the room and what he wasn't saying.

What wasn't he saying?

Why wouldn't he cross the shallow divide between them?

It was that question that she always ended up turning back on herself, which was hard because she really did want to make that easy leap. She felt like he would reciprocate. She felt like the risk was low. But really, Rosalie was desperate for him to make the first move because … what if she was wrong?

At some point, their dinner planning sessions had turned from daydreams to practical strategy sessions. When to get a dumpster and where to put it. How to get lumber and dirt up to the roof. Electrical contractors. Plumbers. Rosalie laughed at their enthusiasm and reiterated her promises of lazy afternoons in the sun and long evenings by the light of the moon. As she watched Emmett and Garrett engaged in heated debate over renting a crane for a few hours versus recruiting a small army of their friends to haul loads up the fire escape, she wondered at how much her life had changed in a few short months.

And despite her confusion over what was happening with Emmett or how to nudge her life forward for the first time in a very long time, maybe ever, she felt lucky.

...

She heard them before she saw them. Or rather, she heard Edward.

One block away in the alley, Emmett turned the corner, with Edward close behind. Rosalie moved closer to the dumpster, wanting to watch him before he saw her.

Emmett's head was down, but she could see he was smiling—his dimples curving perfectly, his cheeks rising toward his eyes as Edward laughed loudly and smacked him with his work gloves. He took it with a few shrugs and that easy smile. He responded a few times—she could hear his low voice reverberate down the alley—but mostly he just shook his head. He seemed relaxed—outwardly happy.

Watching him—knowing or feeling that something might be growing between them—made her happy, too. Effervescent. A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth, and at that moment Emmett lifted his eyes. With no effort, no searching at all, his gaze met hers and he returned her smile. She felt warm and alert—like her whole body was on its tiptoes. Caught, she stepped away from the dumpster, meeting his gaze with purpose and hope. But when his eyes hardened and the smile slipped from his lips a chill radiate from her stomach.

_What?_ she thought, her brows drawing together. _What's happened? _When the voice came from over her shoulder, she knew.

"Who you spying on?"

Rosalie whipped around to find a tall, smiling blond hovering there. He had clearly been watching her watch Emmett and Edward advance down the alley. He looked as surprised as she felt.

"Whoa," he said, taking a step back. "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. "

"No ..." With her hand pressed to her chest, she shook her head and took two shallow breaths. "No. It's okay." She, too, took a step back. Her heart hammered away at her hand, and she focused on her shoes to center herself. Her canvas skimmers weren't spectator pumps, but they worked just as well.

When she looked back up, he was grinning with his head tilted to meet her at eye level. His hair reminded her of Edward's. Though it was white blond, it was equally unruly.

"It _is _you ... Edward said, but—" He shook his head, bemused. "Liam won't believe it."

"Rosalie?" Emmett was suddenly there—much faster than she had expected. She turned to look at him. Barely concealed concern etched his face, and he placed a hand lightly on her back. When she turned back to the stranger, Emmett's fingers pinched lightly at her shirt. He stepped closer and she felt better for it.

"When the name changed, we thought someone new was running the shop. But it's you ... Rosalie Hale." The blond shook his head again, as if he couldn't believe she was herself.

"Liam?" Rosalie asked, trying to make sense of what he was saying.

"Oh, sorry ... again. Liam, my older brother."

She waited. She should know this Liam it seemed, but she was drawing a complete blank.

"Liam Cavanaugh? You went to high school with him."

_High school._

Rosalie blinked and arranged her brain. Like shaking out a towel and folding it neatly, she tried to bring everything she'd just heard together in some semblance of order. This was a part of her life she hadn't thought of in long time—years.

_Liam, from high school. Liam Cavanaugh._

"I'm Peter," the blond said, extending a hand. "I'm five years younger … the same age as Edward." He dipped his head toward his friend. "Liam graduated with you."

Rosalie looked at Edward, who was now standing next to Emmett. The two were a study in opposites. Edward was nodding. He looked amused and hopeful. Emmett still looked concerned and drawn. He was clearly taking his cue from her.

"You had English together ... and Liam sort of had a thing for you." Peter chuckled, dropping his hand.

"_Liam_ had a thing for _me_?" Despite not being clear on who exactly Liam was, Rosalie couldn't help the antagonistic inflection in her voice. This sounded impossible. No one had a thing for Rosalie Hale in high school. No one. That would have been social suicide.

"Pretty without trying. That's what he said."

"That's what _he _said." Edward chuckled, and both Rosalie and Emmett glared at him.

"I'm sorry." She shook her head in a tight agitation. "I just don't remember."

It had been ten years, and the only faces she remembered clearly were the girls that made taunting her a daily sport. As she did a quick shuffle through what she did remember of her senior English class, all she could recall was Mrs. Goff's bifocals and the way they hung by their arms from her ears, swinging under her chin. The rest of it was just a blurred room with under-decorated bulletin boards, six rows of chairs, and a view of the parking lot.

Over the rest of those ten years, she had a hard time assembling a decent list of fond memories. Maybe freshman and sophomore years at SCAD? Crazy adventures with Vera. Working at the thrift store. Summers with her parents. Learning the ropes at the shop. Family dinners. All of junior year—before Roy.

After that ... not much to be fond of, until recently.

She turned to look at Emmett. His eyes were wide and questioning. Peter, still talking, held his phone out to her, pointing to a picture on the screen: him with his arm slung over someone's shoulders at the beach.

She took the phone with shaky hands, looking closely at the image in front of her. Both tall and built. Both with white-blond hair. The other with a short buzz cut and eyes squinting into the sun—a smile equally bright.

_Liam._

She did know him. Though, she would have struggled—and probably failed—with his name if she'd met him on the street. He was the boy who sat next to her in English. Mrs. Goff had paired them up to do a report on the Lady of Shallot, and Rosalie had been tortured for it.

The memories slowly bubbled to the surface: afternoons spent at the library, drive-bys from the popular girls, cutting words and Liam's blush.

"_Slummin' it, Liam?"_

"_Did you fall out of a tree, Rosalie? Who walks around with leaves in their hair?"_

"_Go hang with your own kind, flower girl. Oh, that's right. You don't have any."_

She had never looked at them; she never gave them the satisfaction. She kept her eyes on her work and tried to ignore the embarrassed looks from her partner. While the girls continued to make their daily assaults, she had thrown herself into the differences between Tennyson's 1833 and 1842 editions.

_On either side the river lie  
>Long fields of barley and of rye,<br>That clothe the wold and meet the sky;  
>And thro' the field the road runs by<br>To many-tower'd Camelot;  
>And up and down the people go,<br>Gazing where the lilies blow  
>Round an island there below,<em>

_The island of Shalott._

_What lilies did he intend? Maybe white, for virginity and purity. But his original version specified water lilies … a pure heart … and daffodil … unrequited love, regard, chivalry. Interesting that he chose to change it._

With Peter jogging her memory, looking back on it with mature eyes, she could maybe see things differently. Maybe it wasn't embarrassment for having to work with her that she had read in Liam's eyes. Maybe it was something different, something she hadn't wished to see. She remembered him trying to be nice, trying to engage in conversation beyond Tennyson's words, but she had never let him—except once.

"_What do they mean to you?" He had leaned in, smiling._

"_What?" she had asked, thinking it was a question about the assignment._

"_The leaves in your hair?"_

_Her fingers had reached for the oleander and oak leaves. "Leave me alone. They mean leave me alone."_

She had seen the look on his face. There was hurt and confusion there. But, feeling like it was a trap—or a game she couldn't win—she had looked away, going back to the poem.

_There she weaves by night and day_

_A magic web with colours gay._

_She has heard a whisper say,_

_A curse is on her if she stay_

_To look down to Camelot.  
>She knows not what the curse may be,<br>And so she weaveth steadily,  
>And little other care hath she,<em>

_The Lady of Shalott._

It was not lost on her that the floral references tucked into the lines of the poem still came so easily to mind. So did her memories of the drawings they had inspired. She had filled half a sketchbook while they worked on that report. The poem had spoken too clearly to her: a woman, dedicated to her task—her art; safe, as long as she stayed focused and insulated; doomed the moment she reached beyond the part she had been told to play.

She looked back at Peter. A blush flooded her face, and she handed the phone back. Emmett pinched at her shirt again.

"He never said ... or, I wasn't listening. It was high school ..."

Peter took the phone, nodding grimly. Emmett's hand flattened against the small of her back.

…

Together, the four of them made quick work of the roof. Brittle skeletons of bushes were uprooted. Rotting wooden planters crumbled. Soil was piled. Debris was raked and bagged.

Rosalie worked along side them, but she moved slowly—fighting through the thrill and oppression of what had just been revealed. Peter had just led her down a hallway long abandoned and opened a door at the end that she thought was permanently locked. Could it be true that those things that had always been a given, that she believed to be true, were really dressed in a cloak of false memory?

A slideshow of moments from high school flashed through her mind. How many times had she mistaken someone's intent? How many times had she been so busy protecting herself that she hadn't seen an offer of friendship—or more?

And why? Why was she this way? Even then—before Roy, before she had a real reason to withhold her trust?

But that was ridiculous. So ridiculous. She shook her head. No one was offering more.

No one did.

The sun climbed, and the air didn't move. Even on the roof, open to the cloudless sky, Rosalie felt claustrophobic and disoriented. Sweat gathered at the base of her neck until it rolled in a steady stream down her back.

No one said anything more about Liam or the awkward exchange in the alley, but she knew they were all thinking about it as they moved around her.

Uncomfortable, she felt incredibly uncomfortable.

Peter watched her.

Emmett watched Peter.

It was in the air.

Rosalie tried not to notice any of it. She focused instead on Edward's seemingly oblivious reaction to the over-keen observation by the other two. He was taking particular delight in throwing things over the side of the building into the dumpster below. Maybe too much delight. She might have chalked it up to immaturity, but for one split second their eyes caught, and she saw the unexpected: worry.

When the sun had nearly reached its peak and the end of the morning's work was in sight, the guys each shed their shirts, and for a moment, she snapped out of her daze. The three of them stood together, basking in unvarnished male-competitiveness, discussing dumpster-tossing techniques, and re-enacting their best efforts for one another.

Vera's excited voice was suddenly in her mind: _Hot damn, Rosalie. Look at the hotness!_

It made her smile, to think of her friend, but also because Vera would have been right. Peter's clear, smooth expanse of skin, slick with sweat, shone brightly in the sun. He was handsome and built, lean and broad-shouldered—much like Edward, only taller.

But it was Emmett who captivated her, even with his back to her. His presence was solid, and the marks on his warm-toned skin told a story that she wanted to know: the poplar tree that climbed his left arm and reached across his shoulder blade; the thick dark line that ran up the back of the other arm, stopping abruptly at the top of his tricep. Another tattoo, one she hadn't seen, curved around his ribs—a paragraph of script.

_What had Alice said? Emmett had a tattoo that said what?_

Another burst of laughter reverberated off the rooftops as Edward re-dramatization the disposal of a particularly large bag of debris. Peter's laughter was distracted, though, as he wiped his face with his shirt. His eyes drifted to her again, and she saw it. A smile too wide. A laugh too loud. A look that lingered just too long.

A flash of déjà vu jutted forward from the back of her brain—a touch of vertigo. She could see his brother looking at her in a similar way she could not interpret. She sat down and pressed her back against solid brick, trying to ground herself, trying to sort through the jumble of her thoughts. Her mind settled again on that day in the library with Liam. His smile. His eyes.

"_What do they mean to you? The leaves in your hair?" _

What could her answer possibly have been?

_They give me strength in the face of the unknown._

_They protect me from people who want to make me less in order to make themselves more._

_I own the words they hold._

Would she even have been able to say those things then—in high school? Or were these the words of a 28-year-old woman looking back?

If she had even managed to get them out, would he have understood? Would he have made fun of her? Told everyone that she _was _the crazy flower girl? Or would he have shared her secret? Could he have been a friend? Or more?

_How much could have been different?_

Her mind slipped back and forth between the roof and the halls of high school, drowning in questions. When she fully returned to the roof, everything around her was startlingly bright—overwhelmingly so. Like she had just woken up and was blinded by the light rushing in.

She felt as if she could see things she hadn't been able to before, even though she still wasn't quite sure what it was she was looking at.

She felt raw.

Everything in her was crammed into her chest.

As the present snapped more solidly into focus, she saw Peter was watching her again. Now that she knew these things, she could not help but see Liam in his smile.

She smiled weakly in return.

Emmett watched them like he could see it all: her mind … the tangle of thoughts that were swirling around her.

Peter made to walk toward her, but Emmett stepped in front of him. His broad frame completely blocked Peter from her view; his tattoos lit up in the midday sun.

Emmett's hand rose, flat-palmed, bouncing slowly like he was directing a car into a parallel parking spot.

_Slow down. Keep your distance._

The tight, crammed feeling in her chest eased a bit as Emmett turned and walked toward her. Again, he had anticipated what she needed—before she even could—an emotional bodyguard.

"You okay?"

He draped his t-shirt over his shoulder and squatted down in front of her, resting his forearms on his thighs and balancing on the balls of his feet.

It seemed like being so close should make her feel nervous, considering how she thought of him when he wasn't nearby. But to have him there, looking at her with nothing but concern for her, made her slip into relief. It felt like that spread of warmth when the first sips of alcohol hit your system. Like she could fully let down her defenses and never have to worry, just because he was there.

It was a sight to behold, all six-foot something of him folded up like that. It seemed every single one of his muscles were flexed—taut, but not tense. He looked like he could squat like that interminably, and she felt like she could watch him.

He was … beautiful, which sounded like a strange way to describe him, but she could think of no better word. His smile. His shadow of a beard. All his skin. His art.

The branches of the poplar tree laced together over the top of his shoulder, and a single, spade-shaped leaf lay against his collarbone.

"Hey." He reached out and lightly brushed her knee. The contact was electric—a jolt—up her thigh, settling with a pulse between her legs. She shifted, unable to look away from the branches and the leaf, unable to distract herself from what his touch had just done to her. She resisted the urge to reach out and trace her fingers over it. The work was so fine, so delicate, it looked as if it had just dropped from the branch and landed there. As she fully took him in, she was surprised to find he had no other tattoos on his chest, just fine dark hair skimming over his pecs and down his abs.

There were scars, though. From what, she didn't know. Fine, white slivers cutting across his chest, down his arm and his leg. The longest she could see was on his shin. It was maybe eight inches and more pink than white. Others were scattered everywhere like confetti, nestled between a light dusting of freckles that made him look boyish despite his size.

"Rosalie? _Are _you okay?"

Another scar, that she hadn't seen before, cut neatly across his right temple. Maybe it was because it only seemed significant when she could see its companions, or maybe it was because he was raising his brows in question, but she could only look at the scar as she answered him.

"Hot. A little …" She paused, trying to decide, but only hesitated a second. There didn't seem to be any real reason to pretend she wasn't discombobulated. "I don't quite feel myself." Emmett's brows pinched together. "Like the rules have changed ..., or something."

"How do you mean?" He dropped a hand for balance and settled, cross-legged, in front of her. He looked funny, a big man sitting like a kindergartner.

"That girl in high school …" Rosalie flicked her hand toward Peter. "She didn't exist … for me. I feel like … someone's woken me up from a coma and told me I've been walking around for ten years ... living a life … and I don't remember any of it."

Rosalie shook her head and looked over the roof. Edward was explaining his plans for the graffiti to Peter. All around them the roof was pretty much clear—a blank slate. Only the memory of her mother's garden remained.

Emmett's voice, low and gentle, settled around her as he said, "I can't tell you how to feel about yourself, Rosalie, but ... maybe I can tell you how I see you."

Her breath leaked out of her. If she were a balloon, someone had just let her go and she was shooting erratically around the rooftop, bouncing off every surface, wobbling and emitting embarrassing noises.

Thank God she wasn't a balloon.

She dropped her head but then forced her gaze to his. His dark blue eyes were intense.

How _did _he see her? She was, after all, not exciting. At almost thirty, she had barely lived a life, in any sense. She had locked herself away, and all she really had to show for it was a successful business and a steady routine—a habitual life.

_Like a nun_, she mused.

But the Emmett she had come to know … would that matter to him? It didn't seem like it would. Not in the easy ways, at least.

In the less easy ways … she knew that she wanted him, that she wanted to be with him. But this was a nebulous, fuzzy idea. The fact that she responded to him in the way that she did was, at first, unsettling. The surprise attraction had her thinking more about logistics than she might have expected. She was, after all an almost 30-year-old virgin. Embarrassing questions kept surfacing at the most inopportune times. _What would it mean to be with him? What might he expect?_

Any further reflection was halted by Alice yelling from the top of the fire escape. "I have lunch for you all at the shop. Esme's compliments."

_Saved and foiled all at once_.

As Emmett stood, she thought she saw a similar relief and disappointment sweep over his face. When he gave her a hand up, though, his standard heart-fluttering smile was firmly in place.

They stood for a moment, just looking at one another. Seconds stretched out and she started to itch. She wiggled her nose a little, trying to relieve the urge to scratch. Emmett's eyebrows rose, his eyes gleaming in amusement. She smiled back, trying again to subtly scrunch her face, but it didn't work. She gave in and reached up to scratch her cheek and nose with the back of her wrist, avoiding using her dirty work gloves.

Emmett smiled, reaching for her hand. He gripped her fingertips and gently pulled her toward him. She shuffled forward, close enough that she could feel warmth radiating from his skin. For one irrational moment, she thought he was going to kiss her knuckles. Instead, he cradled her forearm and pulled at the fingers of the glove, one by one. He did the same for the other hand and then shoved the gloves in his back pocket. Something about that—watching him grip the gloves and push them into his shorts—zipped across her chest and tickled under her ribs. When he lightly squeezed her fingers between his own, his kind blue eyes searching hers, she felt it much lower than that.

She stood there, practically panting, when he reached up again. He passed the pad of his thumb over her cheek and smoothed a whisp of sweaty hair behind her ear.

"Come on … the lemonade is getting warm." He released her hand, and she immediately clasped it in her own, just to feel the memory of that pressure.

"Of course."

It was all she could do to walk ahead of him, nodding as she tried to reclaim her already skewed bearings.

"Of course."

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><p><strong>AN: **

**I know it's been a while. I could go into the ridiculousness of it all, but really, who wants to read that? Let's just say, work is beyond nuts, and sometimes the stress just sucks all the energy out of me. Don't worry, I'm not flouncing. But you may have to be patient with me. **

**Thank you to all of you that have tweeted and PMed telling me you miss these two. It so nice to know that you think about them, even when they've been away awhile. I'm terribly behind on review replies and such. I'm behind on reviewing everything.** **I'm trying to catch-up. Just know that I read them, and I really appreciate the time you take.**

**The next chapter will be Rosalie again, this one was getting too long and I realized if I kept going I might hit short IReenH length … like over 10K. ;) That seemed out of formula, so I decided to break it up.**

**Speaking of ... I can't ever say enough about the DTCPS ladies: IReenH, Moirae, believeitornot, shellisthimbles and dragonfly336. Read all their stuffs. Oh, and read the collab that we wrote for Ms. IReenH for her birthday: **** s/8478268/1/Lips-Like-Sugar** **That was fun!**

**Also, I must give huge props to my beta, raindropsoup—TheOtherSoup on FFn. She did this one fast, even though she hasn't been feeling great. ((((hugs to you)))) **

**(As always, she did not beta this note.) **


	9. Chapter 9::Venus Fly Trap:Caught at Last

**I don't own Twilight, but these peeps and their doings are all mine.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 9::Venus Fly Trap::Caught at Last<strong>

Distraction—Emmett was driven to it.

The books were behind. Ordering, too. He hadn't made proper time to work with Alice in weeks.

Anticipation—that was what held his attention.

He disguised its true source with: _How much longer until lunch? How much longer until dinner? _When, really, it came down to: _When will Rosalie be here? When can I help her again? Moving things—boxes, planters, bags of gravel? Anything? When can I share that idea I had? The one that will make her face light up? The one she'll take and riff on until she hands it back for me to riff on some more? The idea that will make that pinch appear between her brows until she sees it fully formed?_

_When will I be near her again?_

The only thing that could keep him focused in the shop was the iron in his hand—the steady, numbing vibration through his wrist and up his arm. Other than that, he skipped from half-assed attempt to half-assed attempt.

But he was trying for more than half-assed as he flipped through the jobs binder, checking payments against estimates.

He paused at the large piece Edward had secured a few months before—grass and daisies running down the ribs and over the hip. In his original, messy notes, Edward had guessed it would take seven sessions to complete. At some point he changed it to ten and then eleven.

It had been almost three months since the job had come in, and according to the sheet, payment had only been received for four sessions.

He could hear Garrett laughing with Alice in the front of the shop. He knew Edward was out there, too, but he was quiet—again.

"E?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you come here? I'm trying to understand something."

"Yep."

Edward appeared at his door a moment later, entering slowly, eyebrows high and questioning.

"This job …" Emmett spun the binder around on his desk so Edward could read it. "Swan. What's up with it? Did she flake? Or go on vacation or something?"

Edward dropped into the chair opposite the desk. He didn't answer.

"Did something happen? Was she unhappy with the work?"

Edward shook his head and slumped back into his seat. His long legs went wide; his shoulders sank, even with the back of the chair.

"You need to explain, dude. Is she coming back? Can I count on this income? Or do I need to …" Something about Edward's expression made Emmett stop. He looked cornered and confused … maybe a little tender, too? "Okay, what's going on?"

Emmett stood, crossing to the door and closing it with a quiet click. When he turned back around, Edward's face was turned upward. The heels of his hands were pressed into his eyes.

"I … I fucking love her, man."

Emmett was only halfway back to his desk, but those words stopped him—dead. This was not at all what he expected to hear—not from Edward.

Lifting one hand away from his face, Edward eyed him—wary, like a teenager who had just confessed to borrowing the car without asking.

"With whom?" Emmett leaned toward the desk to look at the binder again. "Swan?"

Edward nodded. The look on his face said: Am I crazy?

"Okay ..." Emmett took a seat behind his desk again.

"We haven't been working on the art. Not for weeks."

"I gathered that."

"I'm sorry ..."

"What _have _you been doing?"

Edward sat up and dropped his hands between his splayed legs. He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, and leveled a guarded stare at Emmett.

"Fucking."

In retrospect, Emmett should have seen that one coming, but it still shocked him. Like an exhaust backfiring, it jolted him. _In the shop?_ He pulled a long breath in through his nose and tried to stay calm.

Edward, on the other hand, looked steamrolled. He'd just confessed to letting a girl get beyond his carefully constructed emotional defense strategy. Watching his friend's features shift from defiance to submission, Emmett felt a rising tide of irritation ebb.

What replaced it? Rosalie.

The look on her face when Peter had told her about his brother's high school crush. The look when he himself had almost told her how he felt about her—almost.

Watching Edward's obvious torment, Emmett felt something open up inside. Not Grinch-like—his heart did not grow three sizes—but something clicked into place. It was the moment after takeoff and his ears had just cleared. He was now free to move about the cabin.

"That's all it was … but then it changed. Fuck, I don't know why I'm telling you all this." Edward stood. "She's up and under my skin ... I tried … I didn't want it, but it's done." His shoulders rose and fell with quick, short breaths. "She trusts me. Me."

Emmett leaned back. The spring in his old, wood swivel desk chair complained. "Okay."

"Okay?" Edward started to pace, releasing a exasperated laugh. "Okay?"

"I guess …" Emmett shrugged, not fighting it anymore. "Sometimes it just sneaks up on you."

—::—

Mimosa::Sensitivity

—::—

The mimosa tree was nearly six feet tall. Standing next to it on the sidewalk, Emmett would not have guessed it was as heavy as it turned out to be.

With his arms wrapped around the rootball, hauling it up three flights of stairs, he was very aware of its weight. Edward stood four steps up, dodging the loose fern-like leaves, waiting for a nod from Emmett.

"I'm going to say …" One deep breath and Emmett gave it to him. "Tewww-seventy-five." His body tensed, and he shifted the tree up another two steps. Edward tugged on the trunk, and for a moment, Emmett was relieved of the full weight of the tree. It was like jumping in an elevator and achieving that split-second of free fall. Relief.

"I bet you're wishing we'd gotten the crane right about now," Edward joked, but his heart wasn't in it.

"Shut it, or we can switch places."

Rosalie wavered at the top of the stairs. "Emmett, we can stop. We can …" She sighed heavily, stepping down onto the first step and then back up to the landing. "I should have gotten the four-foot one. I just thought ..."

"Rosalie, it's fine. We're more than halfway there. We're going to do this. It just might take longer than expected." He winked, and the tension drained out of her. She smiled, acquiescing.

He stood, wedging his good leg up against the burlap covered roots. Reaching above his head, he stretched his arms and back. "Let's take a minute."

"As long as you need, man," Edward said, leaning up the stairs, his full weight pulling against the tree.

Emmett looked up the stairs again. Rosalie's tension had returned.

"Rose." Her eyes settled on his again. "Really. I'm going to sit under this tree. And sitting there, knowing my poor back put it there, will make the times I tease you about it all the sweeter. Don't ruin my moment."

"Okay."

Rosalie's smile stretched his muscles more than arching or reaching for the ceiling ever could. Emmett bent, hoisting two-hundred and fifty plus pounds of root and dirt, and took another stride up the steps.

Twenty minutes later, with his back against a wooden barrel and the mimosa branches swaying above his head, Emmett watched Rosalie play hostess against the setting sun. Across the roof, Edward leaned against the brick, draining the bottle of beer she had just handed him.

"Which do you want?" she asked, striding toward him with two bottles between her fingers—a beer and a natural soda. The question was clear on her face.

"The soda." She nodded, and Emmett reached out, taking the bottle from her. Condensation slipped cold over the back of his hand and down his wrist. "But you knew that," he said, taking a sip. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye as she sat down, putting her back against the barrel, too.

She nodded. "I thought so, but I didn't want to assume. You've never said."

"Guys, I'm gonna head." Edward's voice drew them out of their quiet moment. He lightly tossed his beer into the trash and turned for the fire escape. "I've got someone to meet."

"Not at the shop, right?" Emmett's smile was made serious by the rise of his eyebrows.

"No." Edward shook his head, returning the smile. "Not at the shop."

"All right then. I'll see you in the morning."

"Yep." Edward's head disappeared behind the edge of the roof. "In the morning" rose up to meet their ears from below the roofline.

They sat for a moment more in silence, sipping at their drinks. With Edward gone, everything felt still and expectant. Emmett struggled inside, trying to figure out how to get the conversation back to where it had just been. He'd felt it—her pull. It was drawing him out, and he wanted it for the first time in a long time. Maybe ever.

He took a deep breath. "There's a lot I've never said."

Rosalie took another long sip and sat forward, cross-legged. "It's easy to feel like you can't. I know." Her pony tail fell forward, over her shoulder. "But you can." She turned her head slightly to look back at him. A smile flitted over her lips. It was small, but Emmett felt it in his chest. He felt it in his head.

"Fear is a funny thing."

"It is." Rosalie toyed with the label on her beer. "There's that kind that comes from sensing danger." Her blue eyes met his, and Emmett held his breath. She had face danger. She had felt that kind of fear.

Rosalie looked forward again, ripping a long strip of paper from her bottle. "And then there's the thing you create in yourself. You can say— you can say it's to keep yourself out of danger, but that's not always what it is, is it?"

The sun slipped closer to the horizon, shining bright at the edges of the rooftops. Emmett felt words rise to meet his lips. He felt unguarded—slightly drunk on opening up to her. "Maybe it's to keep others safe."

"Maybe." She sounded as if she were considering that as a possibility. "But ... Your real name isn't Bruce Banner, is it?"

"No." Emmett smiled, shaking his head. "No."

"You don't need to keep me safe from you. I'm an expert on fear, Emmett, and this is something that I'm sure of."

Emmett put his drink down and sat forward. Rosalie turned toward him. He could see as she put her own bottle down that she was shaking—just slightly in her hand. Instantly, the churning mess of thought and emotion inside him turned toward her. How hard this must be—to open up like this—and how she was doing it, thinking only of him.

_Brave_, he thought. _She is so brave. You can be at least as brave as she is._

He reached for her wrist, pulling their hands to rest on her knee. The tremble he had seen traveled like a whisper into his fingertips. He could see it in her lips, too. If he knew it wasn't his imagination, he would have said the whole rooftop was trembling.

He wrapped his fingers more tightly around her arm, pressing his thumb to the pulse in her wrist. Closing his eyes, he tried to think of what words to use.

"You're shaking," she said.

"I am?" he asked, opening his eyes to find hers staring back at him in wonder. "I thought it was you."

"Some of it might be."

"I'm ... I'm nervous, actually." He surprised himself with his own confession. Now that the gates were open he was just letting the words flow.

"You?"

"Yeah. I don't want to fuck this up."

"Me either."

"I don't think that's possible."

"I don't know. Anything's possible."

"No, if anyone's going to, it'll be me."

"I won't believe that," she said, bringing her other hand to his calf. "Won't."

Emmett nodded, breathing through his nose. Rosalie's pulse had slowed under his thumb. They stared at each other. This was not a _what next_ moment. It was a _we did it—we crossed over_, and they basked in it.

"I'm not quite sure who I am at this moment." Rosalie laughed. "I feel quite outside of myself."

"Me, too." Emmett words were quiet and his movements slow. _Do it_, he thought. _There's time for talk later._ Pulling on her arm, he leaned forward. He saw Rosalie's eyes widen just before he closed his own and pressed his mouth to hers. The tiniest of sounds escaped on her breath, and he smelled beer and flowers.

At first, it was like he remembered his first kiss being. Her lips were unmoving against his, frozen. But he leaned further in, closing his mouth around her lower lip, and he felt her yield. Then it was nothing like that first kiss, at all.

Rosalie scooted closer, until their knees were touching. Her hand wrapped around his wrist to mirror his own grip, and she pulled at his calf, leveraging herself up to meet his mouth more fully. It was bumbling and awkward until she managed to get to her knees in front of him. Then it was his head tilted up toward hers, and with her hands on his knees, they kissed and kissed and kissed.

Emmett move his hand up to her neck. Her ponytail slid between his fingers.

"I am quite outside of myself," she whispered against his mouth.

He felt the tip of her tongue dart against his lips, and hunger swelled in him. Chaste kisses started to shift and he opened his mouth, his tongue finding hers. A noise rising from the back of his throat met her sigh.

"Rose, Rose—" He pulled away, looking up. Out of breath, she brought her fingers to her lips. Her eyes were still wide, but not in surprise. The little bit of fear he saw there was not of him but of herself. He let go of her wrist, scrambling to his knees.

"I'm sorry," she murmured from behind her hand, trying to turn away.

"No," he said, his hand still at her neck. "Don't be sorry. That's not what this is." With his thumb, he caressed the flush on her cheek, trying to calm his breath. "I need—for me as much as you—I need to do this right." Rosalie turned back, searching his face. Emmett's eyes dropped, and he swallowed hard. "That's really my fear. That I will fuck it up. That I wreck anything I care about."

Releasing a breath, Rosalie moved her hand to his at her cheek. She shook her head, curling her fingers into his palm and ducking down to meet his eyes again.

"I can't let this be like anything before. I need to take it slow. Is that okay?"

Rosalie smiled, letting out a nervous laugh. "Yes." She sighed, bringing a hand to Emmett's chest. Closing her eyes for a second, she inhaled. When she opened them, she said, "I've never— I don't know how this is supposed to go. So, slow is exactly okay."

Emmett's smile was big enough that even he could feel his dimples. "Okay," he said, pulling her to his chest and pressing a kiss to her temple. "Okay."

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><p><strong>Busy, busy. That's what I've been. If you want to see what I've been up to, find your way to www . piquezine . com. Original, literary erotica. We're looking for both readers and writers. So, check it out.<strong>

**Thanks to my DTCPS girls for reading, counseling and patiently waiting out my many projects and writer's block. And thanks of course to **** raindropsoup—TheOtherSoup on FFn. She's uber patient with my commas.**


	10. Chapter 10::Nasturium::Conquest & Victor

**I don't own the things that S. Meyer does. I'm very clear on that.**

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><p><strong>Nasturtium::Conquest and Victory in Battle<strong>

Rosalie flitted between the kitchen and her closet in her underwear. She was trying to stay ahead of her mind—ahead of the questions and worry that might keep her from her designated task.

Not since before she had walked down three flights of stairs with Emmett, not since he had leaned in to place tender kiss at the corner of her mouth, had she felt less than flustered. Really, not since she had asked him if he wanted a soda or a beer.

It had been five days.

Eggs were boiling, and she was trying to figure out what to wear at the same time. She wanted to be comfortable so she could relax—so everyone could.

She finally settled on a white button down and sailor jeans. Casual enough. Light enough. Warm enough with a sweater thrown over it. Slipping into the shirt, she rushed back to the kitchen to turn off the stove.

Years of helping her mother make deviled eggs had made the basic prep something she could do on autopilot, but she was fumbling it tonight.

She was distracted.

If she had thought that her imagined kisses with Emmett had consumed her, well ... in her mind, they were built to overwhelm her. They were enough to melt her defenses, make her open up to him like the petals of a purple wine cup. Not under duress, not by force, but because she was compelled to. Like he was daybreak and it was an evolutionary imperative. But those kisses, they were nothing compared to remembering the actual feel of his lips, his tongue, the touch of his fingers on her neck. Nothing to the feel of falling into him. Of boiling, turning to vapor, and dissipating with the intensity of the setting sun.

Pulling the it off the burner, Rosalie moved the pot to the sink and tipped it to drain the water. The steam rose, billowing up her neck and over her face, and she leaned into it, breathing in the clouds of vapor.

When the pot was empty, save the eggs, she filled it again with cool water and began to button her shirt. Everything else was prepped.

"Gah …" She unbuttoned her shirt again. "I'll have to take this off. I should wear something underneath." Returning to her room, she dug through her chest of drawers until she found a powder blue tank top.

"How am I going to get thirty-six deviled eggs over there?" she asked the cats, who had been watching her track back and forth between the two rooms. She turned back to the kitchen, throwing the tank toward the bed. They sniffed at it and eyed her before scrambling down and following.

"See? It's not big enough." She showed Cam and Bean the plate. Only enough space for twenty-four egg halves. She counted to confirm: Twenty-four.

Pondering the problem, she opened one cabinet to pull out cumin, salt, and pepper; opening another, she grabbed a can of coconut milk.

She stepped away from the counter, pulling her hair into a loose ponytail at the base of her neck. It was only slightly damp from the shower. She looked at the plate. At the eggs. At the spices. The coconut milk. Her unbuttoned shirt. The cats.

"You need to chill out." Letting her hair go, she released a huge breath. "You need to chill out."

The cats responded with repetitive mews. Smiling at them, she tried to settle on what to do next.

"One thing at a time. It's all you can do."

_Dress? Cook? _A deep breath and then another.

"Mom's Tupperware," she declared.

...

The keys were in her bedside table. The kittens followed her out the door and down the stairs. She thought for a moment that maybe she shouldn't let them loose, but it felt better not to be doing this alone—even if they were just cats.

As she descended the steps, she held the front door key between her thumb and forefinger. The other keys on the ring were cradled in her palm. It all felt very specific and familiar. The weight of the keys, the way they settled against one another and rested in her hand.

Four years before, she had shut the door, and she had not been back since. No one knew that; no one but Emmett. She wondered what her grandmother would have thought of either of those facts.

The dingey brass "3" on the door mocked her. It wasn't as malicious as that: Mocking. But it was a harsh reminder of what wasn't.

Three.

Her parents had never bothered to change the number when they busted through the main wall to combine the two apartments on the second floor. Apt. 3 had been their address from the moment they had moved into the building. It seemed silly to change it just because they were adding square footage. Besides, as Adelaide had pointed out, they were three of them. It was as if it was meant to be.

Standing outside the door, Rosalie had a serious talk with herself: This was not what was meant to be. But it was what was. She would not open this door and find her family. Her mother cooking and singing to Earth, Wind and Fire. Her father trimming bonsai trees or reading the paper. She would not trip over her mother's gardening boots. The apartment would not smell like lemons and rosemary. It would not.

The key slid easily into the lock. She chanted to herself. _It will not be the same. It will not be the same._ And as soon as she turned the handle and pushed the door open ... it wasn't. There was no mother, no father, no music, no bonsai trees. It smelled stale and cold.

She did, however, trip over Adelaide's gardening boots. They were right where they had always been. Stepping into them in her bare feet, she found they fit.

She stood at the door. Not stepping off the coir rug. Not moving into the space. It was weird. Like déjà vu and walking into a scene in a movie at the same time. She saw everything around her but felt like she could turn around at any moment and see the audience watching her from stadium seating.

All around her, the things she had lived with for so long were strangely out of reach. Like a hologram or a magic eye puzzle. Like the ugly flocked wallpaper in her grandmother's dressing room. It all shifted in and out of her depth perception, feeling so close and then suddenly far away. She saw these things and knew, intellectually, that they were her things, her parents' things, but they were not. They were set dressing. Things that looked like books she once owned: Furniture, jackets, lamps, footstools, vases. But nothing about any of it was hers anymore.

She looked down at her feet in her mother's boots. They were a ridiculous red and scuffed with dried dirt at the toes. The rubber edge pressed into the flesh on her shin, and she rocked on the balls of her feet to feel it.

"Same size." Maybe even slightly too small.

Watching her toes at the edge of the rug, she rocked, and the rubber of the boots complained. The red boots. The abused ecru binding on the rug. The dull shine of the wood planked floor. One step and she would most definitely walk into her past. There would be no avoiding it. Just one step.

Sucking in a breath, deep into her lungs, she clomped into the apartment, thudding and squeaking in the rubber boots. Dust lifted off surfaces as she passed. Lit by the afternoon light, the motes swirled all around her like fairies. The whole moment was as surreal as seeing real fairies would have been.

Not until she was standing in the kitchen with her hand on the cabinet that held her mother's deviled egg plate did she dare breathe again.

…

Edward met her at the door, holding his hands out to take the Tupperware. Shaking her head good-naturedly, she handed it over. "How do you do that?"

"Hmm?" His green eyes darted between her and the closures on the container.

"It's like you've got a sophisticated, food-detection device built in somewhere. How did you know I had food? Or that I was even out here?" Truthfully, it was good that he had opened the door. Her arms were too full to have done it herself. She shifted the arrangement she had brought for the shop to her other side and waited for him to answer.

Edward shrugged, looking for a place to set down the Tupperware and open it.

Garrett rolled forward, wearing a conspiratorial smile. He took the flowers from Rosalie, and they both watched Edward retreat with the deviled eggs. "If the government ever gets its hands on you, man, promise you only let them use your powers for good." The only answer was a mumble as Edward shoved the first egg into his mouth.

Emmett approached from the back of the shop, rubbing his hands together, a wide smile overtaking his face. As soon as his dimples appeared, Rosalie felt the drop—the one that had left her breath and heart in freefall every time she had seen him since Sunday.

They hadn't kissed again. Only the smallest of lingering touches and one moment when his finger traced from the middle of her forearm to her wrist. She felt these touches up the back of her legs, and she thought about them in the stillness of the workroom and her kitchen, in the quiet of her bed. But the real difference since Sunday? Emmett looked at her, all the time, as he was now. Really looked at her, like he didn't care who caught him, and it made her whole body smile.

"So, what will it be, Miss Hale?"

Rosalie's anticipation was fully on the outside as she reached into her back pocket and pinched the seed between her fingers. "Hold out your hand."

"What is this?" Emmett brought his palm close to his face to examine the speck she had just placed there.

Alice sidled up along side him, pulling his wrist down so both she and Garrett could see. Squinting at the speck, she asked, "You want a tattoo of dirt?"

Edward rejoined the group with two egg halves in the flat of his hand and one in his mouth.

"It's a seed," Rosalie said.

"A seed ..." Emmett gently pushed it around on his palm with the tip of his finger.

"Of what?" Edward mumbled. Alice seemed unconvinced. Garrett expectant.

"It's a rose seed."

One of Alice's eyebrows ascended with a flourish. "A rose seed? Like you?" She was getting it—she thought.

"Hmph. I've never seen one." Emmett's expression was earnest. Like he was saying, _Why is that?_ Like he felt he should have.

"Most people haven't. They're really difficult to cultivate from seed."

"Have you, ever?" Garrett asked.

"My mom used to. I thought I might try in the roof garden," Rosalie said, tilting her head toward the seed.

"Okay." Alice's arms settled across her chest; her hip jutted out at an angle. "When I said start with something small, I didn't know you meant to be completely literal."

"The seed is small. The meaning is ... _not_."

"Well, what does it mean, then?"

Rosalie couldn't help but smile at her. The tattoo would never reveal it. Most rose seeds looked like any other. But this was the seed of a light pink rose. It was the source of germination for passion, joy of life, and youthful energy. She wanted these things—could see them within reach.

"It's …" Were there words to describe what it meant to her? Did she even want to say it all aloud?

"What kind?" Emmett. Always the subtle rescuer. The small curve of a smile let her know _he_ knew. "What kind of rose is it?"

"Oh. An Orlando Rose. Light pink." She wondered at the Victorians who created this language of flowers. Were they thinking of Virginia Wolfe when they decided on the meaning of a light pink rose?

Edward's pursed smile caught her eye before he shoved another egg in his mouth. He nodded his head in approval and returned to the Tupperware for more eggs. "These are really good, by the way. Coconut milk?"

"Yes," she chuckled.

"Cumin, too. Yummm …"

"Okay, okay." Emmett interrupted. "Alice, draw it up. Try it a few ways."

"Okaaay ..." Alice plucked the seed from Emmett's outstretched hand, her gaze jumping between the two of them, as if wondering maybe if she had missed something.

Rosalie sat and watched Alice draw—her dedication to the task. Every so often, Alice would look up at her and smile. Despite her confusion, she was taking the work very seriously. It would be her first tattoo working for Emmett, but her determination was more than just businesslike. Rosalie could see her heart in it.

After ten minutes, or so, Alice called Emmett over to inspect her work.

"These are good. And I think this one is the right one. Just one thing ..." He reached for a few other colored pencils "... I want to add." He looked at Rosalie over his shoulder, just briefly, before adding to the sketch. Within a moment, he called her over.

Stepping around Garret's chair, she bent down to look at the paper in front of Alice. On it was the familiar angular teardrop shape of a rose seed. Nothing extraordinary, but simply meant to be. For her and her alone. A casual glance might mistake it for a freckle or a birthmark. But it was more. A symbolic mark of what she wanted more than anything: a beginning.

"Okay." She wondered what he might have added, so purposefully.

"I thought, though, that this might be an appropriate addition." Emmett spread a sheet of tracing paper over Alice's sketch. On it was the tiniest of green sprouts—dark green, not more than two millimeters. Not enough of an anomaly that it would be noticed by anyone—except her.

Rosalie smoothed her fingers over the sketch, looking at it, and Alice and Emmett, both. What she had expected when she decided to do this was far from her mind. All she knew was that, now, it seemed exactly, perfectly right, so she said, "Yes." Then paused for a moment—just a breath. "Yes."

Emmett's chest swelled, nearly imperceptibly, and Alice looked at her like: _We'll talk later. _

All Rosalie could do was nod—repeating the "yes"—and start to unbutton her shirt.

"You ready for this, Small One?" Edward asked, patting Alice on the back and swallowing another mouthful of eggs.

"You're going to lay one of those if you don't slow down," Alice teased, snapping on a pair of black gloves. "And yes, I'm ready."

"Okay. This is just the outline." Emmett held a small piece of paper between two fingers. "The piece is too small to get all the detail in the stencil. You'll have to freestyle most of this." Alice nodded, her face scrunched in concentration. Emmett squeezed Rosalie's arm reassuringly.

After that, they got right down to it. Alice chose her inks, placing them in a ordered row on the cart next to her; Emmett confirmed, and she moved on to the next step. Before Rosalie knew it, she was leaning back, gripping the sides of the bench.

"Ready?" Alice's smile was all excitement; Emmett's all ease.

Rosalie relaxed, nodding, waiting for the first prick of pain. After the initial shock of it, she found it wasn't painful at all; though, she could see how some tattoos would hurt. What she felt was more annoyance, a numbing repetition. Enough so that she could tune it out entirely and watch Alice and Emmett at their work.

Alice's nerves ebbed, and Emmett's teaching instinct took over. After each bit of ink was put down, they would stop to talk about it. It was all business, except for the way Emmett curled his index finger around hers.

Less than thirty minutes later, she was standing in front of a mirror, pressing tentatively at the edges of the tattoo on her collarbone and wondering at the astounding nature of change. It was an act of volition, a drastic one (be it minute), that she had actively made. One that she could not take back, and it had made her forever different.

Emmett approached quietly, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. She tried to put her heart into the look they shared, to show that it held what had become clear to her in a very short time: That although these were her choices, he and Alice were wound tightly within them and she would not feel like the person she was without them.

"It's perfect." The lines were more sure than those in the tiny purple heart on Alice's wrist. And the shading gave the seed just enough dimension. She recalled Alice hunched over her, her whole body taut, her tongue peeking out at the corner of her mouth. If Rosalie looked at it up close, it had a little pop, but from further back, it receded into the canvas of her skin. It was exactly what she had wanted. "She did really well."

"She really did." Emmett turned to face her. She watched in the mirror as he spread goo over the tattoo. The cool gel soothed the tiny bite of pain she still felt; his touch ignited a current of sparks over her skin that skipped down her ribs and swirled in her breast below his hand.

Rosalie fought the flutter of her eyelids, remembering Emmett's hands following after Alice's. The gentle way he smoothed over her skin as he checked the outlines and blending. How he took the tattoo machine and did some tiny touch-ups of his own then finally added the sprout. The smell of him as he leaned over her, so close.

She felt her nipples pull tight against her bra, and she stood up, taller, crossing an arm over her stomach.

Emmett expertly unwound a length of first-aid tape and tore it with his teeth. Rosalie bit her own lip, imagining those same teeth on her collarbone. He smiled, maybe a little too knowingly, as he ripped another piece from the roll. With gentle fingers, he covered the tattoo in gauze.

"Take this off after about an hour. It needs to breathe. Keep it clean, but be gentle when you wash. Don't scrub for at least two weeks."

He finished pressing around the edges of the bandage, but instead of pulling away, he left his hand over the curve of her shoulder. His short nails combed softly at her skin. How much had changed since the unacknowledged touches they shared in her workshop as she bandaged his cut thumb. Inside, her blood pounded just as hard, but outside, they were both swimming in expectation.

"The sheet will tell you everything you need to know, but ... I'm happy to consult with you personally."

She slipped her hand over his. "Thank you." Meaning so much more than two words could contain.

The bell jingled at the front of the shop, and Emmett broke their stare to turn and see who it was. When he faced her again, his smile was gone.

"Who is it?" She craned her neck but couldn't see beyond him or the shelves between them and the front desk.

"Riley." Emmett's tone was cold, and he had stopped tracing his fingers over her back. "He comes on too strong. And he can't take a hint. And … Alice won't let any of us give him one."

From the front, Rosalie could hear Alice's voice as she moved around. "It wasn't a definite plan. I only thought it might be a possibility. I actually have other plans tonight. With a friend."

"A friend?" It sounded like an innocent enough question, but something in the tone made Rosalie's scalp tingle. The sound of Garrett pointedly clearing his throat prompted Riley to continue. "That's too bad, Alice. I thought we could hang out." Those words came out too sweet. Artificial.

Gooseflesh broke out over Rosalie's skin, followed quickly by Emmett's hands rubbing her upper arms to warm it away.

"Yeah. Not tonight, Riley," came Alice's answer. "But I'm sure we'll see each other around."

"Yeah."

Whether it was the jingle of the bell on the door as Riley made his retreat or the tone of those last few words, something brought Rosalie's goose bumps back. Goose bumps and an unpleasant drop in her stomach.

It was an easy step forward into the warmth of Emmett's chest.

Later, passing Alice a glass of Shiraz over the breakfast bar in her kitchen, Rosalie asked her about Riley.

Alice sighed before she answered. "Yeah. He's just the result of my general M.O. with guys. I didn't read him right."

"That's strange, isn't it? You're so good at reading people." Rosalie had never considered that Alice might be the kind of girl that had trouble with guys. That she might feel awkward or not know how to act around them.

"About tattoos, yeah. And maybe other people's love lives …" She paused pointedly, raising her eyebrow and taking a sip of the wine. "But my own? I totally suck at that."

"Hmph." Rosalie turned back to the cabinets to pull out plates for their Indian carry-out.

"I mean, he's cute, and he was flirting with me mercilessly. So, it was flattering, but when it came down to it, it just didn't click for me. He's made some assumptions, though, so it's gotten weird. Now … I feel almost like he's trying to collect me."

Rosalie nodded. She knew that feeling. "Emmett said you won't let them intervene?"

"Oh, he did, huh?" Tracing her finger around the base of the glass, she smiled a little. "Typical. All three of them wanted to have a _talk _with him. Garrett especially." Picking up the glass, she absently swirled the wine. "I thought he'd get the hint and move on, but it seems to have made him … it's like he's on a mission to show me I'm wrong."

Alice twisted her mouth, chewing a bit at the corner. The look she gave Rosalie was almost a plea for understanding. "That's why I didn't want to go to the bar tonight. I just don't want to be around him, especially when he's drinking. It's not so much that I'm afraid. He just wants what he wants, and I don't."

Rosalie nodded again, pulling some cloth napkins from the drawer. She hesitated for only a moment and then said, "Believe me when I say, Alice, I know something about this. You have to be careful around guys like him. They're not scary right up to the point that they're more than that."

Alice puckered her chin, her eyes stuck to Rosalie's for a moment, and then she dropped them to her glass. "I know. I just … like … I don't want to make it a big deal. All he's done is … I can't even put my finger on it. All he's done is make me uncomfortable. That's no crime."

"Uncomfortable is enough. I think you don't give your gut enough credit."

Alice huffed a bit of a laugh. She pointed to her stomach and took another gulp of wine. "Defective," she said through the last of the swallow.

Rosalie couldn't help but smile as she finished opening the carry-out containers. "Here. Serve yourself. We can eat on the couch."

Alice dropped off the the stool and swung around the counter. "You know I'm not entirely defective." Her eyebrow slid upward along with the corner of her mouth.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I see things." She plopped a huge scoop of muttar paneer on her plate.

"What things?"

"You and the tattoo guy."

Rosalie's laugh came out in a bark, but her blush spread like spilt wine.

"The tattoo guy ..." Folding her leg underneath her, she settled into the corner of the couch with her plate and wine. Alice dropped down, cross-legged in front of her.

"So?"

Rosalie froze in a moment of: _How does this go? _She hadn't gossiped about boys, really. Ever. Well, not about guys she was interested in. It didn't seem wise. Like you might say something someone could use against you. Vera had never had a problem with sharing, and Rosalie was happy to play the role her friend had needed. But letting loose of her own tongue felt unnatural.

"Yeah. So, your gut is defective and ... I … I don't know how to do this."

"What?"

"Talk about this."

"What do you mean?" Alice shoveled a fork full of food into her mouth. She looked perplexed.

"This." Rosalie flapped her hand back and forth between the two of them. "Get all twitterpated and gushy about guys. I've never done it. "

Mid-chew, Alice stopped to stare in disbelief. Then she mouthed, _twitterpated?_ before remembering that her mouth was full of food. From behind her hand, she said, "Well, we're about to fix that." She readjusted on the couch and took another drink from her glass. "This is really nice, by the way." She nodded toward the wine.

"Australian Shiraz. Hunter Valley."

Taking another appreciative sip, Alice cleared her throat twice and said, "So, you obviously like each other."

"Obviously?"

"Yeah." Her look clearly said: _Are you nuts?_ "Have you talked about it?"

Rosalie slowly nodded, swallowing a big gulp. She felt a blush rising up her neck and settle in her cheeks. She told herself it was the wine.

"Or ... Maybe more than talk, huh?" Alice clapped and did a little bounce, grabbing her plate just before it tipped off her lap. "When did this happen, you minx?!"

"See." Rosalie took a bite of rice and shook her head. "This is what I thought. What if I tell you something mortifying and he finds out?"

Shaking her head, Alice sat up and moved her plate to the coffee table. She poured more wine into each of their glasses, continuing to shake her head.

"Okay, first rule of _this_"—her hand flapping back and forth in imitation of Rosalie—"is that _this_ is sacred. I will never, never betray that. Never."

Alice looked as serious as she had been when hunched over with the tattoo machine. Intense. Coming to the realization that she had been holding her breath, Rosalie let herself relax and nod. "Okay."

"'Kay." Alice returned her plate to her lap.

"Sunday. Sunday we talked, and … that led to kissing."

"Ohmygodohmygod … Go on." The whole couch bounced as Alice shimmied in her seat.

"Not since though. He asked me to 'let him do this right.' So, we're going slow." She didn't say that that was just fine by her.

Alice took two more bites before answering, concentrating on her plate. "He's a really good guy, you know. We … well, we all know a little bit about … what happened to your parents … and before."

Rosalie stiffened, imagining her friends talking about her. About that.

"No, no. We weren't snooping. Esme … you know." Alice raised her shoulders apologetically. "But I don't think that's why he would say that to you." Scraping stray grains of rice into a neat pile, she continued. "He doesn't trust himself. He'll tell you he's done some bad things. And knowing the little bit he does … about you … he'll say he wants to protect you … from that."

Rosalie couldn't decide if she wanted to nod or shake her head. Instead, she sat perfectly still, staring at her plate.

She found herself pressing her fingers to her collarbone, right over the tattoo—right where Roy's touch had marked a transition from bad flirting to too far. A dull ache bloomed under the pressure.

"I was assaulted. By someone I knew—sort of. It went from uncomfortable to wrong so quickly."

Saying this out loud—even as Alice nodded, showing that she knew—felt needed. As the words passed her lips she became aware that she had never said them—not that way. She had said what she had to: _He grabbed me. He ripped my clothes. He kissed me. He touched me._ But she had never said what it all added up to. Each of those things alone could have been consensual—even together. But remembering the hard edge of the deck railing pushing into her back and the chill of her beer-damp skin as he ground against her, they finally added up to: _He forced himself on me. I didn't want it. I didn't invite it. _

She placed her plate on the floor. Not that she felt sick with remembering, but more like suddenly clear—more clear than she'd been in years. Settling against the armrest of the couch, she brought her knees to her chest. "I don't trust easily. Even before."

Alice put her plate aside too and moved closer, resting her stockinged feet on the tops of Rosalie's.

"I don't know everything about Emmett, Alice, but ... I _know _I trust him. I told him this. And _my _gut is not defective. It's fine tuned and maybe a bit over-sensitive."

Alice curled her fingers around Rosalie's wrist, and they sat quietly for a long moment.

"So, this wasn't a 'Do you like me? Yes or no' conversation. You really _talk _talked?"

Rosalie nodded, a small smile lifting her lips.

"Soooo, did you really _kiss _kiss too?" Alice asked, playfully bobbing her eyebrows.

…

The third floor had never seemed so far from street level before, nor the steps so steep. Rosalie had never made the walk intoxicated before. In fact, she couldn't remember when she had last felt buzz-drunk. Maybe the last time Vera had visited, but this felt different. New.

"This was so much fun. I had so much fun." Alice was sing-songy, patting her on the back as they carefully descended. Rosalie smiled, her cheeks numb from the wine and laughter of the evening.

"And you kissed Emmett. Oh my God, you sooooo kissed Emmett."

She had. She had sooooo kissed Emmett. And she had told Alice all about it. And she felt free, a bubble of excitement in her chest. Reaching the bottom of the stairwell, she turned and pulled Alice into a tentative hug. Alice squeezed back.

"Red, red wine, goes to my head ..."

"Thank you."

"What?" Alice half-hiccuped.

"Just thank you." _For finding me. For opening your life to me. For taking me in._

Pushing the green door open, the two of them stepped onto the sidewalk, Alice's arm at Rosalie's hips, hers slung over Alice's shoulders.

"I really needed this. We should do it more."

Alice hummed in answer.

Then came words. In any other context—circumstance, moment—they would have been benign:

"So, there you are."

But these words were slurred and graveled. They stung, burned—like a shot. They turned on a tap, and Rosalie's blood drained out of her. She felt hot and chilled at the same time. Weak and strong. Permanent. Evanescent. Like smoke. Immovable. Wholly unsettled. And she hadn't even seen the threat yet. All she could see was the Alice's wide frozen eyes, and the grey pallor of her skin turned green in the light of the entryway door.

Turning, pushing Alice behind her, Rosalie saw him: The man attached to the voice she had heard earlier at the shop.

"Who's this, Alice? Your _friend_?"

Rosalie saw objectively that his features were handsome, but there was nothing nice about him. His eyes were heavy with alcohol, and the slow step he took toward them was all menace.

She threaded her fingers through Alice's, locking them tight, and pulled her friend securely up against her back. She could feel Alice's breath through the sleeve of her shirt, hot and fast.

"I am her friend." Her voice didn't even seem like her own. It sounded firm, like concrete. "I think it's best if you go, Riley."

"Who are you, telling me what's best?" Alice squeezed at her fingers, pulling at them, forcing her to take a step backward.

"Like I said, her friend." Riley was between them and her door; there was no going back. "We're on our way. You should be on yours." Out of the corner of her eye, she could see across the street to Miss Pixie's. Edward sat at the desk, his back to the window. She could see flashes of Garrett and the broad curve of Emmett's plaid shoulders as he leaned over a client. "You're drunk. Don't do something you will regret."

"Oh, trust me. No one's going to regret it. Least of all me." He reached for her hand and tried to wrench Alice's fingers from hers.

What followed was a blur of movement and sound. Her foot coming down on his; the heel of her hand sailing upward. The snapping crunch of bone in his nose and Alice's squeaks. The vile words falling from his mouth.

"You bitch. You fucking bitch."

She turned quickly on her heel, leaving him hunched and bleeding. Alice was like a leaf, shaking and easily lifted in front of her as she flew across the street and through the door of the shop.

Edward reach them first. "Rosalie? Small One? What the hell?" Then Garrett was there, taking Alice gently by the wrist and pulling her onto his lap.

The smear of blood in her palm was bright—bright against the white of her skin. Tiny freckles of red littered the white of her shirt.

Edward's hand was on her shoulder, his voice far away in her ears. "What happened? Rosalie?" Turning toward the back of the shop, he yelled, "Emmett!"

All of this, just as Riley yanked the open door.

"You broke my fucking nose." The words were a mix of fear and fury.

"What did you do, Riley, you fucking tool?"

Edward seemed suddenly huge as he stepped in front of her. Or, maybe she felt very small. The low roar of his voice was all she could hear, that and a piercing ring at the back of her ears.

Everything felt bigger—bigger than normal—until she felt warm hands on her, pulling her close.

Eyes wide, Riley retreated back through the door to the sidewalk. He patted the tips of his fingers against the blood oozing down to his chin. "Bitch," he whispered.

"Call the cops," Edward said as he followed him outside.

Behind her, she heard Garrett on the phone and Alice telling him what had happened in quiet whimpers. Through the window, Riley paced, yelling at Edward, pointing at her. The shrill crash of shattering glass made her jump as Riley put his fist through a car window.

She felt it all, all the way to the tips of her toes. It was like a movie—Technicolor and incredibly real, but not.

The only things that were truly real: Emmett, saying nothing, sliding his arm across her chest, pulling her close; the pinch of pressure against her still new tattoo; and the fast rise and fall of his chest against her back.

.

.

.

.

.

* * *

><p><strong>Still busy. Shocker. <strong>

**My monster work project, the result of 18 months of struggle and ass-pain, launches on Valentine's Day. The Winter 2013 issue of www . piquezine . com does too! Original, literary erotica. We're still looking for readers and writers. So, check it out!**

**So, of course, with everything going on, this is the week that my words show back up, demanding to be written. I'm already well into the next chapter, so I hope it doesn't take as long to get that one out as this one did.**

**As always, thanks to my DTCPS girls for WCing, reading and just being plain awesome. I can't believe how freakin' lucky I am to have found their kindred spirits. We sometimes write stories together. In fact, we just published a story for the lovely Thimbles, who just had a birthday. You can read her present (mermaid Bella and Biologist-Ward) and the stories that were written for my and IReenH's birthdays too: www . fanfiction u / 4210330 / DTCPS  
><strong>

**Finally, this note would not be complete with thanking raindropsoup—TheOtherSoup on FFn. She's is forever patient with my commas. (She did not beta this note!) Check out her site: www . theluvnv . com**


	11. Chapter Eleven: :Magnolia::Perserverance

**Magnolia :: Perseverance**

From the office, the sound of voices rose and fell like the sharp report of gunfire. Edward. Garrett. Then Alice. Which wasn't right, because she was with Rosalie.

Then Edward yelling.

"Emmett!"

This _could _have been any other evening in the shop, but it was the fourth voice that sent him running toward the front.

Riley.

Chaos met him beyond his office door. His client stood, cowering behind the shelves next to his station. Beyond that Garrett cradled Alice on his lap. Edward, vibrating with anger, was advancing toward the door. There, Riley stood, dripping in blood.

Anger and fear burst behind Emmett's eyes, leaving the room saturated in color—over-saturated. Red of blood. Violet of Edward's shirt. The riot of everyone's tattoos. And Rosalie, stiff and still, standing behind Edward, looking small despite her height. The platinum of her hair, the white of her shirt—she was a bright torch at the center of it all.

Emmett moved with purpose, but slow, so not as to upset the precarious balance in the air. The room was at a precipice and all he wanted was to get to Rosalie, before they all went over the edge.

He dropped his hand lightly on Garrett's shoulder as he passed, getting a tight nod in return. Garrett's strong, wiry arms enveloped Alice, whose face was buried in his neck, her hands tucked in a prayer against his chest. Inside the cage of his arms, he was calm, but outside he was taut with anger. Of all the things that had happened to Garrett—the biggest of which Emmett felt responsible for—he had never seen him angry like this. It struck him hard.

With a squeeze to Garrett's shoulder and one last long stride, he reached his girl. If he hadn't known for sure she was a living, breathing thing, he would have wondered if Rosalie was a statue.

She hadn't moved.

At the door, Riley's ire was doused. Emmett felt a knot of cold hatred pulling tight in his throat. It hurt. Hurt to swallow. Hurt to push down. It urged him toward the door. It formed his hand into a fist. But next to him, Rosalie's stillness thawed him. Carefully, he curved a hand to her waist. She didn't startle as he had expected.

She didn't do anything.

_What had that asshole done to her? To them?_

All Emmett's old instincts battered at his insides. They wanted nothing more than to push past Edward and pummel Riley until his whole face bled. But the rest of him, the part that he wanted to be, was anchored to Rosalie. There was no way he was leaving her side.

Emmett settled for a look that spoke of the violence he imagined letting loose instead. Riley shrank in its wake, backing out of the door, but managing one last act of defiance: "Bitch."

Swallowing hard against the staccato pulse in his throat, Emmett pulled Rosalie tight against his chest, binding her to his warmth, holding himself together, hoping he was doing the same for her.

…

The flash of red and blue lights was gone when Rosalie opened the bathroom door. Emmett was waiting, leaning against the wall, his hands behind his back.

He wasn't angry like he thought he would be. He had questioned himself briefly, wondering how he could have prevented it. But the feeling of needing to be near her, needing to know she was okay swamped that train of thought. He could only manage to think about Riley in a detached way.

Rosalie stood in front of him examining her hands. He couldn't tell what she needed. She wasn't cracking up. She wasn't upset. Did she need him, even want him there?

"I'll take you home?"

"Please." She sighed in relief.

Reaching out, he wrapped his hand around hers. She squeezed back a little, giving him a weak smile.

Walking toward the front of the shop, Rosalie slowed her steps and fell behind. Emmett turned to find her scanning the room and the stretch of sidewalk outside the front window.

"They arrested him. Drunk and disorderly and destruction of property. He's gone."

She nodded, picking up her pace again. "It was your truck … the window?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry about that."

"Rose, it's not your fault. He did it."

"I know." She looked at him straight on, blue eyes to intense blue eyes. "I know that. I do. But it doesn't mean I can't feel bad."

"Okay."

She nodded, curt, but not angry. "Where's Alice?"

"The guys took her to Garrett's. She's going to stay there. We didn't want her to be alone."

Rosalie scrunched her forehead. "How long was I in there?"

"About twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes?"

"Maybe you're in shock?" He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles and ducked to look her in the eyes, trying to pull her out of her daze. "Let's get you home."

A moment later he was pulling the shop door shut and locking it. Rosalie stared at the glass on the sidewalk and the thick plastic duct taped over the passenger window of his '68 Bronco.

"I washed my hands for twenty minutes while Riley got arrested, you guys taped up the window, and Alice left with the guys?"

"Okay, maybe thirty." Emmett smiled, trying to make a light joke, but it didn't erase the crease between her eyes. He brought her under his arm and started walking toward her apartment. "Hey, it's okay. There was a lot going on. It didn't all happen while you were in the bathroom." He took a moment, trying to decide how to ask, but then decided not to pussyfoot around. "Are you okay?

"I don't know."

…

The third floor had never seemed so far from street level before. Emmett followed behind Rosalie as she slowly took each step. They rounded the stairwell on the second floor and he placed his hand at the small of her back. She didn't lean into him, but she didn't pull away either.

He wanted to grab her, crush her in a hug, bury his face in her hair, and whisper how glad he was that she was safe. He wanted to tell her how badly it had all scared him, but he didn't want to scare her, too.

There was a time that he would have been in the back of the police car along with Riley. There was a time he wouldn't have stopped himself from acting on his anger. A time when he wouldn't have thought of anyone but himself. But he needed to be calm. She needed him calm.

Once inside, Rosalie walked away from his hand, heading straight to the couch.

"What do you need?"

"Tea? That would be really great," she answered, dropping back into the cushions.

"Okay." Emmett walked into the kitchen, not sure where to look. "And if I were tea, I would be …"

"Mugs to the right of the sink. Tea to the right of that."

"Okay. What kind? No caffeine I think, right?"

"I'll take Tension Tamer. Seems apropos." Emmett started to relax—just slightly. Rosalie seemed shaken, but not immobilized. A small, bitter smile had played over her features as she had spoken. Bitter, yes, but it was a smile.

He put the kettle on and crossed to the living room, sitting down in front of her on the coffee table. She was cradling her hand and he could see a nasty red and blue bruise blooming under the skin of her palm.

"Woah. What happened?"

"I guess it's from hitting him."

"Do you think it's broken?" He slipped his hand under hers, lifting it to take a closer look.

She shook her head. "I think it's just a bad bruise."

"A really bad one." He got up and returned to the kitchen. "Do you have ice?"

"Mmmmm ... frozen peas?"

"That'll do," Emmett answered, finding them in the freezer.

Sitting down across from her again, he took her hand and gently placed the peas in her palm. She answered with a hiss and he snatched the bag away. "Sorry. Let me look. Wiggle your fingers. Are you sure it's not broken?"

"If it was, this would really hurt, right?" Slowly, she raised each finger. "It doesn't feel nice, but it's not excruciating either."

He nodded and carefully rested the peas in her palm again. This time, ready for it, Rosalie only winced.

"I think you should get it checked, though." Seeing the weary look in her eyes, he added, "Tomorrow."

He looked her up and down. She was pale, more pale than usual. But beautiful—made more so because she was safe, because nothing worse had happened. He stopped himself from squeezing her hand and settled for brushing his fingers over her wrist.

Rosalie released a puff of breath, sagging and dropping her head.

Balancing her hand on his knee and holding the bag in place, Emmett reached for her neck, rubbing his fingers up and down over the knots of her spine. She relaxed into him, sighing again. Her hair fell ragged in front of her face.

Specks of blood littered her white shirt. Peeking out from behind the collar, he could see the gauze and tape over her tattoo.

"You'll need to take that off."

"What?" she asked, looking down at her chest, eyes widening.

_Idiot. Shut up. _"Sorry. I meant the bandage."_ Think about the words before you say them. _

"Oh. I completely forgot," she said, pulling the collar away and dipping her chin to look.

Emmett swept a finger over the waist of her shirt. "Do you want … do you want to change?"

Rosalie looked down at the red blemishes on her shirt. Nodding, she quietly stood.

"I'll make the tea?"

"Okay."

Emmett watched the kettle as it started to steam.

She was quiet. Too quiet. Like the Rosalie they met months ago, not the woman that had revealed herself to them over sub sandwiches.

He was worried, but angry, too. He focused on pushing the temper back. That was not what she needed to see. She needed to trust him. She needed him solid.

He pulled a mug from the cabinet when the steam began to rise in earnest from the spout.

Rosalie returned a few minutes later in loose grey pajama pants and a man's oversized, v-neck sweater. It was old—pilled and worn—and he wondered if it was her father's. She pulled the sleeves down, clutching them tight in her hands. Her makeup was gone but her lips still flamed bright against her pale skin. Her hair hung, loose and tangled around her face. She padded back to the couch in her bare feet and Emmett met her there with a cooling cup of tea.

"Better?"

"Tired."

_So, not better. _"What can I do?"

She chewed at her lip and took a sip of tea. Lifting her eyes to his, she asked, "Can you … stay?"

"Of course." Emmett wrapped his hand around her knee. His eyes stung. Like he had left them open too long. "Yes."

More of Rosalie's tension washed away. "I don't want to be alone if ... I don't want to be alone."

"Rose." Emmett tried to keep his voice even. "He won't come here; they arrested him. He can't hurt you. I would never let him."

"No. I know. It's not that. I just … I feel … I don't know how I feel."

Emmett could see she was struggling with something, even though he wasn't sure what it was. It didn't seem to be fear. Something more than that, but he didn't want to upset her more by pushing her to figure it out.

"It's okay." He squeezed her knee again. "I can stay. I'll sleep out here."

"I'll get some blankets." They stood, and she turned her blue eyes on him. "Thank you."

Without more than a moment's hesitation, he pulled her close—tight—and she snuggled in, her hand on his chest, grasping his shirt.

"I'm just so glad you're okay." Emmett swept his lips and cheek over the silk of her hair. "Just …." He stopped himself, taking in a shaky breath.

Rosalie pulled away slightly and looked up at him, her eyes searching. What he saw wasn't desire, but need. The same need, he thought, that he felt. Bending toward her he placed a gentle kiss on her mouth and she kissed him back, sliding her hand around his waist. There were no tongues. No heat. Not like before on the roof. Just a tenderness and the acknowledgement that they were very likely losing their hearts to one another. Very likely already had.

They stood a moment more, Emmett resting his cheek on the top of her head, smoothing the hair down her back; Rosalie curled close, the ends of her fingers tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

When she closed the door to her room a few minutes later Emmett was left alone to sort out his mind. He snapped the sheet out of it's perfect fold and unfurled it over the couch, creating a cozy little nest with the pillows and blanket she had brought him. Unbuckling his belt he dropped and stepped out of his jeans, then slid between the layers of cool sheet. He had assumed his mind to race as he lay down, that he would have trouble falling asleep. That he might feel strange in a new place, or the need to keep watch. But as soon as his head hit the pillow he was suddenly exhausted. He closed his eyes thinking he would just rest, in case she needed him.

...

"Emmett?"

Cool fingers on his forearm and the repeat of his name rousted him from sleep.

"Rose?" He sat up, trying to untwist himself from the sheets. He grabbed her wrist, looking around the dim apartment. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah … I …" But instead of continuing she pressed her mouth into a tight line. He leaned forward, closer to get a better look at her face. She was sitting across from him on the coffee table, just as he had with her earlier.

"What time is it?" he asked, rubbing his eye and scratching down his cheek to his jaw.

"2:30ish? I couldn't sleep."

"What's wrong?" He curled his hand around her forearm, rubbing his thumb up and down. Her ligaments bounced like guitar strings. "Tell me."

"I feel weird. But, not like I expected." Rosalie pulled a tendril of hair over her lips. "I guess that's why it's weird."

"Like what?" He moved to the edge of the couch, his knees on either side of hers. "What did you expect?" he asked, trying to put a pin in what exactly she was talking about.

Rosalie dropped her head, shaking it.

"Rose …"

She brought her hands to her face, rubbing her eyes and eyebrows. When she looked at him again she said, "Can I lay here with you?" Her voice was quiet; her eyes hopeful, edged with a plea.

"Yeah, of course."

Standing up, he pulled back the sheet and blanket. He started to think of how to clarify, to say that he knew this wasn't an invitation, that he didn't intend to be physical with her, but that, yes, he wanted her close, too. Rosalie, though, didn't hesitate. So, he said, "Scoot in," and she stretched out, pressed herself into the back cushions of the couch, and waited for him to join her.

Emmett took a breath and looked down at her. In the mix of street and lunar light that shone through the big windows, she looked like an apparition. Her platinum hair spread around her like a halo and her skin was like a moth's wing in the moonlight. She looked up at him expectantly. She was beautiful.

He carefully lay down next to her and they shifted around until they were flush up against one another—knee to shin, arms to chest, with Rosalie's head resting on his bicep. Emmett pulled the sheet and blanket back over them and carefully dropped his hand to her hip. Then he waited—to see if she would tell him what she needed, what she wanted.

He fought the urge to to move, to pull her closer. He settled for his lips against the crown of her head and the feel of her hair pressed against them. His breath rebounding on his face, making the air beyond seem cold and still, like nothing existed but the bubble of warmth created by their bodies and the blanket.

They were silent for a long time. So silent, Emmett wondered if she had fallen asleep. But then she nudged her knee at his shin. He moved his legs back, trying to give her more room.

"Can we …" She pushed again. "I feel … stiff." She shifted against him. "Bend your knee, or something." He could hear a smile in her words and he felt a rush of relief. There was Rose. She was still in there.

He tried moving to accommodate her, but he was a big man. The couch wasn't small but neither was Rose. Both of them together on the relatively narrow cushion, no matter how closely they clung to each other, it didn't leave much room. He wasn't sure what to do.

Finally, with a huff, Rosalie lifted her leg over his and pulled his knee forward. He could feel the warmth between her legs against his thigh, and he sucked in a breath, reciting the names of ink colors in quick succession.

_Periwinkle, Red Lipstick, Wild Orchid, Dusty Rose … _

He disguised a moan behind a short grunt as he struggled to adjust his position.

_This is not the time. Most definitely not the time. _

Finally, legs and arms completely entwined with his, Rosalie turned her face to the ceiling and settled. "There."

"Good now?" he asked, finally breathing again. He focused on her face, not her body.

_Not her body._

"Yes." Her pursed grin was genuine, but small.

"Okay." With a squeeze to her hip, he said, "Are you ready to tell me?"

Those words wiped her smile away. Staring at the ceiling, she chewed again at the inside of her bottom lip. Emmett pulled her lip from between her teeth. He grazed the pad of his thumb a few times over the puckered skin of her mouth, until she turned her head and looked at him.

Emmett returned his hand to her hip and she met him there with hers. Their fingers slipped together in a tight weave. She turned her eyes back to the ceiling and took a deep breath. Her next words were quiet.

"I can't help but think about things that happened to me." She flicked her eyes to him again, as if to confirm something. "I know you know. At least some of it."

"Esme," they both said at the same time.

Rosalie turned her eyes upward again. She scraped her teeth over her lip but quickly let it go. "He didn't rape me. But … I feel like he did. He took something. Plucked it right out of me. It left me feeling cold. Like an exile in my own body."

Inside Emmett boiled. He could feel the surface of his skin pulsing and the rushing beat of blood in his ears. He felt as angry as he had when Esme first told him all those months ago. Angrier, because Riley had just made her relive it all.

She squeeze his fingers, her eyes turned on him again. "Is this okay if we talk about this?"

"Yes. My God. I'm sorry. Yes."

"It's weird. I haven't wanted to talk about it. Ever. And, I haven't. Not in a long time. But, tonight I did with Alice. And..."

"What?"

"... then this happened."

Emmett could only nod.

"I'm a little worried that I'm not curled up in a corner."

"You're worried because you feel … okay?"

"I'm worried, because I'm wondering if it's still coming. I was terrified of waking up tonight and having it crash down all around me. The memories. The possibility of what could have happened. What Riley could have done to Alice if I hadn't been with her. It makes no sense to me that it hasn't."

The words rushed out of her, but stopped just as quickly. Her chest rose and fell against his, her injured hand pinned between them. After a long moment she began again.

"If you leave a tree unchecked, the branches will grow together into a thick canopy. The leaves block the sunlight to any plants below. Without sun—and rain—those plants can't become what they're meant to be."

Rosalie turned, pressing her face against his chest. "I've let my past grow wild. I left the memories unchecked." Her next words were muffled by the blanket and his t-shirt. "It's easier in some ways, closing yourself off, I guess. Nothing bad will happen to you. But neither will life."

Emmett knew Rosalie was describing herself. He knew that she didn't mean him, but he couldn't help but hear his own truth in them. Guilt crackled inside him. _She's opening up to you. This is about her. Not you._ But when she turned her face to his once again, he felt the tightness in his chest loosen.

"I feel different, Emmett. Like_ I'm_ growing again. Like I've cut back the branches."

"Me, too."

...

Rosalie startled out of sleep a few times. The last time, when Emmett pulled her tight, he could feel wet seeping through his t-shirt. "Hey, hey …" he whispered, rubbing her back "... are you okay?"

"Yeah."

Tucking her even closer he said, "Bad dream?"

"Yeah."

"I'm here."

"I know ... I know."

When they woke up for the final time, it was to the sound of a self-assured knock. Early sun filtered through the curtains. Rosalie pushed up, out of the circle of Emmett's arms. Her hair floated around her in a cloud of blond; her cheeks were pink with sleep. Emmett couldn't help but smile.

"Did you hear that?" she asked.

"Yeah," he groaned, stretching. "A knock?"

His words were followed by another tap at the door and a muffled "Rosalie?"

"Oh, God." She collapsed back against his chest.

"What?" He lifted himself, looking toward the door. "What's wrong?"

"Esme," she mumbled, into his shirt.

"What?" Emmett gently pushed Rosalie away and sprung up from the couch. She looked up at him wide eyed and he looked down, suddenly struck with the realization that he was only in his underwear and a tshirt, and that he was hard. He moved his hand to crotch, covering himself, willing his erection to yield. "Shit. Rose?" He kicked around, looking for his jeans.

It surprised him, what happened next. Rosalie smiled, giggled even, put her feet on the floor and stood up from the couch. Gone was the pale, drawn look from the night before. Her eyes were bright; her cheeks were colored with more than just sleep. She looked … mischievous, and it made him feel, incredibly, less nervous. It also made him wish Esme wasn't knocking on the door.

Rosalie licked her lips, stopping his breath. Leaning forward on her toes, she set her mouth to his and gave him a kiss.

"Put your pants on." Turning for the door, she called, "Coming," and back to Emmett, "you good?"

He nodded, hopping into the legs of his jeans, buttoning them up. Rosalie put a hand on the handle and he took a deep breath, looking down at his feet. A tiny rainbow danced over his bare toes. He was smiling when she opened the door.

"Hon." Esme deposited a covered dish in Rosalie's waiting hands and proceeded to slip her jacket off. "I made you a frittata."

"Oh. Thank you?"

Esme cupped her hand under Rosalie's elbow and looked her straight in the eye. "Edward told me about it …"

Rosalie nodded, her chin dropping slightly. "I'm actually okay. I … it was … unpleasant. But I'm fine." She turned briefly toward Emmett, and Esme's eyes followed.

"Emmett." She didn't seem at all surprised to see him. It was early morning and he was standing there, barefoot and rumpled. In fact, Rosalie looked just as rumbled. It wouldn't have taken much to jump to the wrong conclusion. "Well, there's enough fritatta for you, too. Funny Edward didn't tell me you were here … but it's good of you."

Turning back to Rosalie she drew her into a hug. "I'm glad you're okay, hon. I really am." Pulling away she smoothed Rosalie's tangled hair away from her face and rubbed her arm. "You really do seem okay."

Emmett approached them slowly.

"I'll leave you, then. I can see you're being taken care of and I'm so happy for that."

When Esme was gone, Rosalie took the frittata to the kitchen. Emmett, unhindered by trauma or dirt from working on the roof, had time to take in the space, to see how Rosalie lived. He had time to look at her studio space.

"Coffee," Rosalie called.

"Please."

A phone rang and Rosalie ran to get it.

"Hello? Hey." _Alice_, she mouthed and walked back toward the kitchen.

The kittens came stretching out of the bedroom and followed him as he meandered to the clutch of tables and easels by the windows. He scooped the cats up in one hand and massaged their little skulls with the tips of his fingers. As he browsed, he could hear the even tones of Rosalie's voice from the kitchen.

Emmett had seen Rosalie's workroom in the shop. It was immaculate. This space was the opposite. It was soft chaos. It didn't feel out of control, but it was a creative disarray: clusters of paints, jars of pens and pencils gathered together in joyful knots of color; stacks of paper dressed in both loose gesture drawings and precise illustrations. Blooms, leaves, and stems lept off of each sheet and Rosalie's flowing but sure script named each and identified its meaning.

Magnolia was on top, half-sketched with a branch of live magnolia, partially in bloom, laying on top and matching up perfectly with the pencil lines beneath it. _Perseverance._ He lifted the sheet and branch carefully and moved it aside. Below it were more flora in pen, pencil, watercolor, pastel and even crayon.

Apple Blossom — Better Things to Come

Cherry Blossom — Spiritual Beauty

Daisy — Innocence/Purity

Gooseberry — Anticipation

Black Poplar — Courage

He remembered the leaf in her hair, the first night she came into the shop. It was shaped like a spade, like black poplar. He brought a finger to the tattoo on his arm. It was shaped like the leaves on his tree.

Pink Camellia — Longing

Venus Fly Trap — Caught at Last

Oak Leaves — Brave

Balsam — Ardent Love

These meanings, they felt like hope. Like a desire for something more. _Longing. Anticipation. Ardent love?_

Dahlia — Dignity and Elegance — Forever Thine

He looked at Rosalie pacing in the kitchen, on the phone with Alice. His heart twitched in his chest.

Turning back to the table, in his periphery, a glimpse of a younger Rosalie baited him. Behind some jars and a stack of drawings was a frame with three photographs—three moments captured in quick succession. In each, she stood wrapped in her parents' arms, her blond hair and fair skin standing out against the darker, richer colors surrounding her. She seemed to be high school age and she had leaves in her hair—oak leaves. He looked back to that drawing and read the word: _Brave_.

He carefully picked up the frame. She clearly got her coloring from her father, though his hair was more sandy. He seemed to have passed on his temperament, too. He looked like a quiet man. But her mother, she radiated energy.

In the first photo Adelaide Hale burned bright—red hair, high cheekbones, light blue eyes that showed up, even in such a small picture. Her vibrancy, like a magnet, commanded the attention of her husband. Rosalie stood, tucked under his arm, his hand reaching across her chest to grab her other shoulder. He held her close, dear, but his eyes were only for Adelaide. She smiled without restraint, while Rosalie, by comparison, seemed not sad, but muted.

The second photo captured a moment later and it felt completely different. Though she hadn't moved—her hands still curled over the top of her father's arm—Rosalie looked content. Her mother reached out to sweep her too-long bangs from her face. Her father pressed a kiss into her hair. She looked in love with her family. A small smile played at the edges of her mouth.

He could hear the joy in the third photo. Rosalie's head was thrown back, her eyes closed and her mouth wide. Adelaide was bent forward in laughter, her hand resting on Robert's hand at her daughter's shoulder. They were rejoicing and the same feeling washed over him.

How much Rosalie had changed since he first met her. How different she must have been between this moment and the day those photos were taken. She had her quiet times, certainly, but more and more she burned bright, too. Laughed. Was content. She didn't seem anything like the woman he had seen walking the sidewalk in front of his shop for so long. There was an ease about her he recognized from the photos—an ease he felt in himself, too.

He returned the frame to its place just as Rosalie walked up with two cups. Steam rising from the cups enveloped them in an earthy-, rich-smelling cloud. He reached out and took one of the cups, grateful for the smell, the warmth, the imminent taste of it.

"What did Alice say?"

"She's still with Garrett. She thanked me for 'kicking Riley's ass.'" Rosalie's blushed cheeks peeked over the curve of the cup as she blew to cool the coffee. "She sounded okay." She stopped to take a sip. "Garrett said, 'Hi,' too. He asked how _you _were." Her eyebrow slowly ascended as she took another nonchalant sip.

"Me?"

"Yeah."

Emmett shrugged. He knew what Garrett meant. Was he blaming himself? Did he feel responsible for this, too? But he realized that, though he may have thought about it for a moment—what he might have done to prevent it—he didn't really feel responsible. He was just glad he had been there. That he could be what she needed.

"I'm good."

She looked at him, confirming in her own way that he spoke the truth. "Good."

"So, what's all this?" He fingered her drawings, fanning them out a bit.

"Oh, I've been thinking."

"About?"

"Another tattoo. A bigger one."

"Really? One of these? Which?" He looked at the pages trying to decide which he thought she would pick. Maybe _Brave_. Maybe magnolia. Nothing seemed to stand out on its own. But he knew from experience that tattoos were very personal.

"Maybe … all of them? Like a bouquet." She was chewing on her lip again.

Emmett's eyes grew wide. All together. He could see that. A bouquet of meaning. But then his mind immediately shifted to: _Where?_ Which lead to thinking about her skin, her beautiful, flawless skin. And her body, under his hands, pressed up against his in the night …

_Stopstopstopstopstop..._

"Not now. And not all at once." She placed a hand on his arm. "I mean, I want to be sure."

He nodded, trying to bring his expression under control. Rosalie was laughing at his surprise, at his fluster.

"It's a big decision."

He nodded, again.

"Will you help me?"

"Yes … of course. I may even try to talk you out of it." The words were out of his mouth before he understood what he was saying.

"What? Why?"

Other people walk through his doors and it was "tattoo at your own risk." Their choice. He tattooed flash crap off the wall all day and didn't think much about it beyond how much it bored him and the money it brought in. But he didn't want Rosalie to regret it. He didn't want to be part of a choice she might regret. He knew that meaning was important to her. Look at what she did with flowers. She lived meaning. A meaningless tattoo would never do.

"You'll be forever marked, Rose. Even when you're a grandma they'll be a part of you. You have to know, really know, that that's what you want. That the meaning is that deep. That it's worth having deep in your skin. Deeper."

He put his cup down on the desk and pulled his sleeve up. In the black and grey trunk of the poplar tree he traced over the ghost of his demon tattoo.

"You can cover them, even remove them, but they never really go away. You either live with their meaning—accepting it for what it was in the moment—make it mean something new, or just let it grow with you."

He pressed the tips of his fingers into his bicep—into the eyes of the demon. Had its meaning changed? Yes. It was finally more than what it was in that moment. It was the healing from all the pain he had caused, his own included. It was a hate-eater. The thing that consumed regret, anger and self-loathing. It had finally become an emblem of what he didn't want to be. Of what he wasn't.

He watched Rosalie looking at his tattoo. Instead of looking just at the face hidden behind ink and his fingers, she looked at all of it. She flicked her eyes to him and then back to his arm, then putting her own cup down she pushed his sleeve up, even farther. Her fingers traced the length of the tree, pausing at the leaves and the knots in the branches.

"You have to imagine yourself looking at it in thirty years," he said. "When the lines are feathered. When the colors are faded."

She huffed a tiny laugh and squeezed his wrist.

He thought about putting his tattoo machine to her skin the day before. That little tattoo on her collarbone held deep meaning for her—meaning he couldn't even pretend to grasp. All these flowers meant something to her, too.

"Just think about all this going in," he said, a little breathless.

"Okay." Rosalie pulled her lip between her teeth. "But I really do think I want more."

He picked up his cup, chuckling into it as he took another sip. "Well, looks like Alice was right again."

"What do you mean?"

"You've got the bug. And now that you're not a virgin... you'll always be thinking about your next one."

Rosalie's eyes went wide. She choked a little on her coffee.

"Oh, jeez." He slid his hand over her back and patted her lightly. "You okay?"

She nodded. And nodded. And nodded.

"I still am, actually," she said, wiping a finger across her lip.

"You're still what?"

.

.

.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So, yes. I did just stop it there. But don't worry. The next chapter is already finished. And... it's the last one. I'm going to sit on it for a week or so (maybe less) to make sure nothing needs tweaking, then ta-da! All done!**

**Sigh. I'll wax poetic about this whole experience at the end of next chapter. In the meantime,as always, huge thanks to my girls! They got me into this and/or kept me going to the end. If nothing else, this experience has allowed me to know and become closer to all of them. They are: rillaotvalley, zazasant, Moirae, IReen H., thimbles and believitornot. Finally, a big acknowledgement to theothersoup/raindropsoup, who has beta'd for me up to this point. I'm much improved in my use of commas thanks to her. (Though, don't judge her based on this chapter or the next. These are all me!) Believey jumped in to help me on a general edit this time. She rocks!**

**To everyone that's been reading and reviewing. Thank you! I love hearing that others have fallen for these two the same way I have.**


	12. Chapter Twelve::Plumeria::perfection

**Mrs. Meyers owns Twilight. Duh.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9::Plumeria::perfection, springtime, new beginnings<strong>

_And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. —Anaïs Nin_

* * *

><p>Previously:<p>

_He picked up his cup, chuckling into it as he took another sip. "Well, looks like Alice was right again."_

"_What do you mean?"_

"_You've got the bug. And now that you're not a virgin, you'll always be thinking about your next one."_

_Rosalie's eyes went wide. She choked a little on her coffee._

"_Oh, jeez." He slid his hand over her back and patted her lightly. "You okay?"_

_She nodded. And nodded. And nodded._

"_I still am, actually," she said, wiping a finger across her lip._

"_You're still what?"_

.

.

.

_A virgin. I'm a virgin. Oh, God._

Rosalie dropped her forehead into her hands.

"Sorry. Can you say it again? I got lost."

_Not like this. This is not how I wanted to do it. Stupid mouth. Why did I sa__y__ anything?_ "Emmett …"

"Yeah?" Emmett slipped his other arm around her back and stepped closer. Not pulling her to him, but coming to her. Meeting her where she was.

_Yes._

Rosalie relaxed. Sort of. She peeked up at him. "You make me feel … safe. But also … you make me … feel. You make me feel ... on the outside." _On the inside._

Emmett blinked, appraising her.

She had said it before—when they kissed on the roof—that she didn't know how things were supposed to go. But that could have meant anything. She remembered their conversation. _He said he wanted to go slow. Blurting it out like this, that is _not _slow._

"You, too," he finally said, looking thoughtful and pleased. "I think we're good for each other that way."

He pulled one of her hands away from her face and lifted her chin, urging her to look at him. She shifted from relaxed to something else. She could feel herself shaking—on a molecular level. They were different now—different after sleeping together, after waking up together.

"Rose? What did you say? You can tell me."

After a long, unsteady breath, she did.

"I'm a virgin."

Street noise and a bird outside the window were the only sounds. Emmett's dark blue eyes searched Rosalie's face again. She could see him considering, trying to decide what to say. She imagined his internal dialogue was something akin to the bird chirping.

What felt like cool ribbons slipped over her skin—along her collar bones, along the edges of her shoulder blades. Emmett reached up and pushed her hair back, away from her face. He stopped with his hand on the back of her neck, his thumb beneath her ear.

"Okay," he said.

She closed her eyes for a second, willing her voice not to shake. "I didn't mean to blurt it out."

"Okay." He smiled. "Okay."

"Just okay?"

"Well, I mean … what did you expect? That I'd run?" His thumb dragged behind her ear, sending chills down her back. His slow smile made her insides feel like wet sand. "Virgins aren't that scary."

"No." She rolled her eyes, picking at imaginary lint on his shirt. "Maybe more disbelief, though?"

"I mean, I wondered."

Emmett's fingers fanned out over her back. She could feel the heat of his hand through her dad's old, ratty sweater.

_He wondered. That means he has thought about this. _"Well, I feel a little lighter, having said it out loud, at least."

"You were afraid to tell me?" Emmett's eyebrows pinched together. Lines cut across his forehead.

"No. Not afraid. Just awkward. And maybe like I was presuming too much … that you would even be interested in my 'status' yet ... at all." Still pinned in by his arms, Rosalie lifted her hands between them and made constrained air quotes. "I don't know." Rolling her eyes, she ended with, "God. So embarrassing."

Emmett's coffee-flavored laugh floated over her face. "You didn't think I'd be interested?"

"Well ..." She knew he would be. She thought. But there was some uncertainty. Some doubt.

"Rose, be assured, I'm very interested. But not in your experience. In your _experience_. I want to know you." He curled his finger behind her ear again. The slight tug on her hair made her feel warm and loose in her joints.

_My God. Who knew my ears were so, so ..._

"For you to … know me."

Rosalie nodded slowly, taking in the soft curve of his mouth. "I do. I want to know you."

Emmett slid his lips together. The very tip of his tongue peeked out. She felt the pull, the tension between his mouth and hers. It felt like club soda on her lips.

On an autopilot she didn't know she possessed, Rosalie, reached up, unfurling the awkward curl of her hands. She pressed her fingers into the soft space behind his jaw and pulled his face toward hers. His eyelids and long eyelashes fluttered shut; his hands dropped to her hips and he waited, mouth parted. The heat of his breath washed over her face as she brought her mouth to his. She couldn't help but smile into the kiss.

Their tongues met with just the lightest of touches, but she still felt a heavy drop between her legs. Lifting herself onto her toes, she swallowed a quiet, "Oh."

Emmett's fingers gripped her waist, and she leaned into his chest, pulling his mouth closer. She wanted more. More of him touching her. More of him soothing the frantic, quivering feeling inside.

Backing into the desk, Emmett pulled her with him. Papers rustled. Jars and pencils clinked and rang. His hands moved lower, answering her demand by coaxing her even higher onto her toes—closer to him. Fingers slid just between her legs, grasping her tight.

She fought the shock of it—having him just there, so close—because she didn't want him to stop. She didn't. This was the more she had been looking for, though, it was doing nothing to quell her shaking nerves.

Emmett was the one to pull away, finally. He returned a hand to her hip and set her back on the flats of her unsteady feet. With the pad of his thumb, he wiped his wet kiss from her mouth.

"Rose." He swallowed, catching his breath. "Rose. Not like this."

She answered the only way she could.

"Yes, Emmett. Like this."

He slid his hands up to her shoulders. She could see him struggling again against what he wanted and what he thought he should do. She willed her mouth to say nothing, but her eyes said it all: _Please._

It was only a moment before he shut his eyes, and a moment more before he took her uninjured hand and walked her to her bedroom.

She trembled.

She felt it in her ankles.

She hoped for a modicum of finesse—that she wouldn't make a fool of herself.

She thought about when she last shaved.

She breathed into her hand, checking her breath.

She quickly ran her fingers over her teeth.

This was a leap off the high-dive.

They came to stop at the foot of her bed. Emmett released her and turned a step away. Rosalie's hands swung together. She pressed her thumb into the bruise on her palm. The raw pain erased the surrealism of the moment. She had never felt so supremely present.

"Are you afraid?" His jaw was set, tense. His eyes were like dark wash denim.

Biting her lip, Rosalie shook her head. "Nervous, maybe. Just nervous."

Emmett nodded, pushing a long breath out of his nose.

"I'm not sure what … how to … do this," she whispered. Her bravery, so present in the living room, felt as if it was lifting off of her skin, floating away.

Emmett laughed. "Me neither. You've never done this. I've never done this with someone that's never done this." He ran his hand roughly over his scalp.

The cats wandered into the room, mewing.

"Oh, no, no, no. We won't be having an audience. Sorry kits."

Rosalie's smile was unseen as Emmett scooped Bean and Cam up and gently dropped them outside of the bedroom. The door clicked quietly shut in their curious, whiskered faces. When he turned back to her, _he _looked afraid.

She immediately closed the distance between them.

"No, Emmett. No. Don't look like that."

"I don't want to … mess this up. I've never had to be anything like what you need. I never have."

"No." She shook her head, realizing she was about to speak a deep truth. "I choose what I need." His hand in hers, she stroked his palm with her thumb. "I choose this. I choose you."

Emmett swallowed, his Adam's apple rising and falling slowly in his throat. "It's just ... it's a big deal, Rose. It should be special."

It was her turn to laugh. "What? Like a fancy meal and flowers at the door? I've got all the flowers I need, Emmett, and this isn't prom. I'm twenty-eight."

Emmett's mouth curled, crooked and wry. "Okay. You make a point."

"This _is_ special to me. I want you to … I need to complete the way you make me feel."

She huffed in frustration and pushed her hair out of her face. What were the words to explain this? This feeling of perpetual anticipation?

"I've never felt like this, Emmett. Ever. I want whatever lies beyond this." She gestured to the space between them. "Because trying to imagine it for myself just isn't enough."

Emmett exhaled as if belted. He took another small step back. "Wow."

"What?" _Oh, no._ A sliver of panic cut down Rosalie's spine.

"Way to put pressure on a guy." But seeing her face fall, Emmett took her wrist, pulling her into his arms. He was smiling.

With her head on his chest, Rosalie exhaled hard and fast. "I'm sorry."

"No. Don't. There's nothing to apologize for. I was just kidding. _I'm_ sorry. I guess … I'm afraid. Or was."

"But you're not now?"

"Just nervous."

"Well, then we're even."

The dull sound of Emmett's chuckle thumped in her ear.

Ducking to look her in the eye, he said. "Can we take it slow right now? No sex. I just … Let's just be together. Let me make you feel good."

As straightforward as they were, those words stole Rosalie voice. They made her knees shake as her mind tried to imagine what that meant. The idea of sex felt almost clearer: tab A to slot B. _Let me make you feel good? _That could mean anything.

All she could do was nod and watch as he took a step back toward her.

Emmett's fingers wove into the hair at the base of her skull, while his other hand dropped to the small of her back. Rosalie felt weak as his mouth descended toward hers. Like a heroine in a black and white film, she was boneless and overwhelmed.

She remembered his other kisses—the way they made her stomach flip—but this felt like something entirely different. They were standing in her bedroom. This kiss was definitely leading to something more. She could feel the flip in her whole body.

His mouth slid over hers, soft but insistent, asking her to respond. Opening her mouth to his left her drunk, and when he pulled away and began to lift her sweater over her head, she actually stumbled from the disorientation.

_Breathe_, she reminded herself. It would do no good to literally swoon.

Left standing in front of him in just her blue tank and pajama pants, she felt exposed. Her nipples pulled tight against the thin, ribbed fabric. She lifted her arms to cover her chest, but Emmett pulled at them lightly until she dropped them.

"Please, Rosalie."

He traced his fingers from the hollow of her throat across her shoulder, over the tender skin surrounding her fresh tattoo. Leaning down he followed his fingers with the tip of his tongue. It was hot and cool at once.

Her head fell forward, and she watched his hand drop to the swell of her chest and lower.

A panting sigh passed her lips, and she bit down hard to keep from doing it again.

Emmett stopped, his thumb sweeping the underside of her breast. She could feel a slight tremor in his touch.

"Rose. Please don't hide how you're feeling. I need to know you're okay. That what I'm doing is okay."

Rosalie pulled her lip into her mouth with her teeth.

Why _was _she hiding? She wanted this, but a voice inside said it was wrong to show that—inappropriate. That no matter how she felt, she shouldn't enjoy it too much.

She could feel it: a locked-down compulsion to protect herself. But from what? From Emmett? There was no reason to, no threat. He made her feel protected. Even more, he helped her realize her own strength—he seemed drawn to her because of it.

Like pulling a door open on a new spring day, Rosalie felt suddenly invigorated. She took a deep, shaking breath.

"Rose?"

She bobbed her chin up and down. "It's definitely okay. More than okay."

Emmett's grin made the floor quake beneath her.

"Can you … I need ..."

Emmett's confusion cleared as she slipped her hands under his t-shirt, pulling it upward. He helped by removing it the rest of the way. With his face hidden in the tent of his shirt, she was confronted by his obliques, the muscles of his stomach and chest, the hard edge of his collarbones. Blood rushed behind her eyes, making her lightheaded. She let her head fall forward again, trying not to look too hard.

"Good God, Emmett."

"What?" he asked, worried. His shirt dropped at their feet.

"It's probably good we're not going to have sex right now."

"What?" He laughed. "What do you mean?"

"I might die … I might just die."

"From?"

"I don't have words." She grabbed his fingers, just to feel their realness. "Can we sit? I actually feel faint. Ridiculous."

"Are you serious?" He took her elbow and brought her to sit with him on the edge of the bed.

"I'm not used to this … feeling so much."The physical and emotional, all at once. It felt like slipping on ice, not knowing if you were going to be able to catch yourself.

Her ears and head thumped. She felt like she could see her heartbeat through her shirt. After a few deep breaths, she turned to give him a weak smile. Again she was greeted by the shock of his dimples.

"I'm thinking too much."

Emmett nodded a little, a pursed smile playing at his lips. He squeezed her elbow. "Let's take another minute. Maybe it's better—"

"No." She cut him off. She was not turning back now. "I'm fine. Just a minute."

Rosalie swallowed, still shaking her head, and ignored his smirk. With his shirt off she could again see the single poplar leaf on his collarbone and the scars littered like confetti over his skin.

"Did you know it meant courage?" she asked, her fingers finally able to trace the edges of the leaf. Emmett's breath caught, and he captured her hand before she could pull away.

"Not at the time. I just saw your drawing, though. I did mean for it to give me strength. For it to ground me. Give me roots." His eyes focused on their hands. "I was failing ... at life."

Rosalie squeezed his fingers and scooted toward him. Sitting closer she saw lines of script curving around the ribs on his right side. She had seen them before from a distance, when Emmett worked on the roof, shirtless and sweaty, but she had never read them. She snaked her hand behind his arm to touch the last characters of the lines: _1769_.

"What is this?"

Emmett lifted his hand and turned for her to see. All in black, the neat cursive lettering read:

_I shall now mention the way _

_they mark themselves indelibly, _

_each of them is so marked by _

_their humor or disposition. _

—_Joseph Banks, HMS Endeavor, 1769_

"He was Captain Cook's naturalist. The first Westerner to describe tattooing using that word. It's a Samoan word."

Rosalie's fingers lingered over the second line: _they mark themselves indelibly_.

Looking up at Emmett she could see, this tattoo wasn't meant to refer to a moment in tattooing history. It was much more personal. She couldn't help but think about how life had marked her, both good and bad. How it must have marked him. In ink. In scars. In the unspoken things that linked him to Garrett.

She laid her hand over the words, covering them fully. He would tell her those things soon enough. Fill in the gaps between what she knew and what she had only guessed. She didn't need him to bear the pain of that right now. She needed _him_, and she was nearly certain he needed her, too.

Their kiss was terribly tender. Sweet. Maybe polite.

At first, Rosalie wondered if their moment had passed. If maybe it was too much, too soon. She waited for him to pull away, to smooth her hair and rub her back, to tell her they should wait. Instead, he urged her to lay back on the bed.

She had to struggle to bring her heart with her.

Her normally solid mattress felt like a waterbed. It was physically and mentally disorienting. In any other situation, she would have just lifted her chin and powered through. A cool, removed exterior had gotten her through so much. But not this. She wanted this. _Wanted _it. And she wanted Emmett to know it.

He sat above her, leaning on his arm, pushing her hair away from her neck. She lay there her hands awkwardly at her side, grabbing at the quilt.

"Talk to me," she said. "Hold my hand." She reached over her stomach threading her fingers through his, then slid her other hand over his thigh, trying to ground herself.

Emmett leaned in, placing a soft kiss at the corner of her jaw.

"You are so beautiful, Rosalie Hale," he whispered in her ear. "I've never told you that, but I think it. Each time I see you, I think it. Even when I don't."

He kissed her again in the same spot, his tongue flitting along the ridge of bone.

"Oh, God," she breathed, pawing lightly at his jeans.

His mouth slipped over hers, and she breathed her next moan into his. She lifted her hips, straining against the thudding pulse between her legs. This is what he meant by _make her feel good_. Her imaginings hadn't even come close, and he was just kissing her.

Emmett suddenly pushed away and stood, leaving her breathless. She covered her heart with her hand, trying to bring the beat back to normal, only to have it jump again when he popped the buttons of his jeans.

She propped herself up on her elbows.

"No sex," he said again, reassuring.

She swallowed.

She thought she nodded.

He pushed his jeans down and stood before her as he had earlier, only he wasn't covering himself and he wasn't wearing a shirt.

_He calls me beautiful?_ she mused. His tattoos. His muscles. The structure of his body. He would be amazing to draw. She felt the involuntary itch for a sketchbook, but quickly pushed it away, stunned by her own inappropriate timing.

She could see him hard, through his underwear, but she didn't let herself think about the size of him.

_No sex_, she thought. _No sex._

She was still chanting that when he asked, "Can I take these off?" his fingers plucking tentatively at the elastic of her pajama pants. In a faraway way, she nodded again. His knuckles skimmed the flat of her stomach. Her pants quickly slipped off her toes.

"Tell me you're okay, Rosalie." Emmett stepped up to the bed, one leg between hers.

"I am," she whispered. Then louder, "I'm okay."

She was more than okay. She was cresting the top of a hill and feeling desperate to see what was on the other side.

Bending over, he dropped his hands on either side of her. "Rose, I will only make you feel good. If I'm not, tell me to stop. No matter what. Okay?"

She wondered at his confidence. _I will make you feel good._ Not, I want to. I will.

"Mmmhmm ..."

Pinching her lips between her teeth, she pulled a deep breath in through her nose. She reached up and touched the poplar leaf again, just a soft touch. Emmett's chest rumbled quietly. She watched his face as her hand trailed lower, his head dipping in a minute nod as she continued to move down his torso.

She felt both bold and apprehensive. It wasn't that she hadn't seen a penis before. Life drawing classes at SCAD gave her plenty of exposure to the male anatomy. But she had never touched one, not one that she had wanted to anyway.

She closed her eyes, clenching her jaw. _ButIwillnotthinkaboutthat. Absolutely. Not. Now._

Her hand skidded over his abs and swept along to his obliques where they met his boxer briefs. Emmett brought his knee onto the bed and nodded again. She wanted him to say something, to tell her what to do. But at the same time, she imagined what he might say, and it sounded comical.

_Touch it, _she cried inside, which made her snort—aloud.

"You don't generally laugh about anything related to a guy's … manhood."

"Sorry, but I feel ridiculous."

Emmett's dimples bloomed one at a time, and something about his smile or the break in the tension, urged her forward. She reached a few inches more and wrapped her hand around him, firmly. Her touch made his eyes slam shut, and his lower jaw push forward. His mouth curved into the shape of an O.

Rosalie grinned, giddy with gloating.

He was hard, but it wasn't like she had imagined. Even through the gray cotton of his briefs she could feel the give of his flesh. Was he big? She had no comparison. But he filled her hand as she ran it down his full length. She kept her eyes on his now closed mouth.

His breath left his nose in short bursts.

Her hand moved lower, touching the softer parts of him.

His jaw tensed.

"Enough," Emmett huffed. Rosalie pulling away in surprise, wondering if she had done something wrong. "Scoot back," he said more softly, the blue of his eyes imploring.

They both inched their way toward the middle of the bed, and before Rosalie could decide how far was far enough, Emmett's mouth was on hers again.

His tempo had changed. When he had seemed happy to let her set the pace, things felt languid—like floating on rolling waves. This was more urgent, and it pulled her right along with him.

"Come here," Emmett said, settling down on the bed next to her. He rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of him. Straddling his hips with his erection pressing up against her, Rosalie felt an adolescent thrill spread through every part of her body. It was a feeling that she had never had any real opportunity to experience—that she had never let herself experience. She felt daring and imminently closer to satisfying the thrum between her legs.

It wasn't that an orgasm was an unfamiliar thing. She'd had many by her own hand. She knew how it felt to complete the incomplete feeling she had inside. But this was different.

The warmth of Emmett's skin pressing against hers. The tickle of his leg hair. The feel of his nipple hardening as she ran her fingers over it. This was bigger and more portentous than the things she could do for herself. The things that had become routine.

Emmett pushed her tank higher. She worried about the softness of her stomach until his fingers found the side of her breast. She could feel the accepted weight of it ease as he took it in his hand and ran his thumb over the tight pucker of her nipple.

"Hhhhh ... Em ..."

She closed her eyes, allowing herself a dip in her hips. A teasing shock radiated from between her legs, meeting up with the burn that Emmett was kindling at her breast. The sensations swirled together under her ribs.

Her head dropped involuntarily back.

Emmett pulled at her thigh, urging her to move.

"Oh, God."

She found herself lifting away. Not because she didn't want it, but it all felt like too much. Much too much, and at the same time, it was not enough.

She clenched her thighs.

His hip bones dug into their muscle.

Emmett's hand tightened, pulling her back down.

"Let it happen, Rose," he panted. "Please, let it happen."

Sliding back and forth over him, twisting into the creases of her underwear, she felt herself getting closer. Between the flutter of her eyelids, she could see Emmett with his head pressed back into the mattress.

"Rose," he panted.

Never had she heard her name spoken like that.

Emmett's jaw pressed forward again, unsuccessfully holding back tiny grunts. His fingers dug in, urging her on. Small shocks of pleasure reverberated through her, plucking at her like she was a stringed instrument. Each jolt forced the air from her chest in the form of an, "Oh."

Falling forward, she spread her fingers wide over Emmett's tan and flushed chest. His eyes danced between her face and the back of his eyelids as he skimmed his hands blindly over her body. His hips thrust upward as words of adoration fell from his lips.

He looked completely ungoverned, beautiful as he lost himself to her.

"Fuuuck ..." Emmett groaned, stretching out the word as he came. "God, Rose. God."

His grip slackened, but he kept trying to move her over him, to help her to climax, too. It was Rosalie who couldn't continue, not at the pace she had set just a moment before.

Through the layers of their underwear, she could feel him pulsing his release. She could feel it wet against her inner thigh. Reaching down she ran her fingers over the dark gray dampness. She rubbed the slickness of it between her fingers.

She had done that.

"This was supposed to be about you." Emmett's voice shuddered. He ran his hand up and down her spine.

"I …" But she could only shrug and smile. "Sorry."

"I won't have you feeling sorry."

He pulled her down against his chest and kissed her. It was a slow, satisfied kiss—lazy and filled with a smile. It only lasted so long, though, because she quickly found herself with her back pressed into the mattress and Emmett hovering above.

"Thank you," he whispered, leaning in and placing delicate kisses the apples of her cheeks. "But now, you."

Any hesitancy was gone. Not an ounce of worry was left in his features. His focus was clear. Emmett's kisses trailed from her lips, to her chin, and lingered over her neck. He pushed her shirt up again, this time fully over her breasts. Involuntarily her arms pulled up, but she stopped herself and hooked her fingers around his hips instead.

The rush of blood in her skull as his mouth came in contact with her skin brought black rings to the edges of her eyesight. She sucked in deep breaths. The prickle of his morning beard scratched against the tender skin between her breasts. His tongue circled her nipples before he lightly pinched each of them between his lips.

"Ahhhhh … Em-mett …" Rosalie keened, arching toward his mouth.

Pulling at her shirt, he wrenched it off of her and threw it toward the head of the bed. Any thought of embarrassment was wiped from her mind. She just wanted more. More of this.

More.

He left her breasts wet and chilled when he returned his mouth to hers.

She brushed at the scrub of his close-cropped hair.

Pushed her fingertips into the ligaments of his neck.

Pulled him closer.

Took his tongue.

Gave him hers.

A blip of a thought zipped through her brain. _Am I doing this right? _But then she remembered that she had just made him come, and she released it. _Just go with it. Let it happen_, she thought, remembering Emmett's words.

Leaving her panting, he kissed down her body again and twisted his fingers into the elastic of her underwear. She lifted her hips off the bed so he could pull them down. When she finally lay naked in front of him, the frantic beat of her heart caught in her throat, making it hard for her to swallow.

Emmett knelt at the end of the bed, holding her panties, looking at her, smiling and shaking his head. She tried to swallow again. Twisting slightly, she pressed her legs together, sending a satisfying chill over her skin.

"Emmett?" She shuddered. She could feel the hair on her arms rise.

He dropped the underwear and crawled back over her, stopping over her hips and dipping down to place a kiss below her belly button. She felt his tongue flick lower.

"Emmmm …" She thought she knew what he was asking, but it felt like too much. More than she could handle at that moment. "Ummmm …" He looked at her, eyebrows raised, and she apologetically shook her head. "I ... sorry."

"Hey, hey. It's okay," he said, laying down next to her. "There's nothing to apologize for." Sliding his arm under her neck, he pulled her close and swept her away with kisses instead.

She hadn't known that kissing could be such a consuming experience. That it could steal your mind and leave you feeling outside of yourself. That it could tease the beginnings of an orgasm from your body.

When she pulled back, she was out of breath. "Owww," she said, rubbing her fingers over her lips.

"You're all red."

"I'm not used to kissing so much. And you're scratchy." She breathed a soft laugh as she ran her fingers over his scruff. Emmett captured her fingers and brought them to his mouth, pressing them to the seam of his lips. They both knew, she wasn't used to kissing at all.

"Okay. Now?"

Rosalie granted him a tiny nod and he rolled her back onto the bed, softly dropping a scratchless kiss on the tip of her nose. Emmett's hand moved down her chest, over her stomach to her thighs, leaving goosebumps in its wake. She still lay stick-straight—legs pressed together—feeling tight and locked-down. But she could also feel the pulsing beat between her legs. She wanted this, even though the unknown of it scared her.

"Relax," Emmett said.

"Will it hurt?" She thought about Emmett's hands, the size of them. _Would it hurt?_

"No. No. But talk to me. If it does, I'll stop." He kissed her neck, carefully avoiding the raw skin around her mouth. "Relax. This will feel good. I only want to make you feel good."

She nodded, and after a deep breath, she did.

Emmett dragged his fingers through her curls, and just that light touch rocketed through her, making her gasp. When he pressed between her thighs, pushing them apart, he was more firm. "Lift your knee," he whispered. Cool air washed over her as she did, making her feel even more naked than she was.

Emmett circled with the tips of his fingers, sliding them over her sex until she was panting, grabbing at his neck and chest.

"Hmmmm … Emmett … Em ..."

In answer to her cries, he slowed his pace and pressed the palm of his hand flat against her. His fingers moved lower, lower, dipping inside.

"Yes?" His eyes ducked out of view as he kissed and nibbled at her neck.

Mouth open, panting, she nodded again. There were no more words for how she was feeling or what she wanted. No more words as she felt him press inside.

The push and tug—so different from the feel of her own fingers—made Rosalie fully unravel, made her release her last bit of control. She did try to hold on, try to silence the cries that had gathered in her chest, but she couldn't. They expanded from the inside out, connecting with her building climax and filling the room with undeniable evidence of the surge that was about to consume her whole.

Emmett's palm against her clitoris felt heavy—weighted, while his finger—flexing as it moved in and out—felt light and almost ticklish. His mouth moved to her breasts, whispering indistinguishable words against her skin. She covered her eyes with her hand, unable to think of what else to do.

She wondered how she looked.

How they looked together.

"Breathe, baby," he whispered, pulling her closer. She felt a second finger join the first. It felt full, tight, but not painful. Just … astounding as he curled and twisted inside her.

"Ohhh ... Hhhngh ... Emmett, Goddddd ..."

Her legs fell open and pulled together at once. She felt something crack inside, like the satisfying snap of a branch before it was thrown onto a fire. She cried out, throwing her arms around him, pulling him close. She felt aflame. Her skin bloomed red. Her breath burned hot. Her orgasm flared like none she had felt before.

Emmett kissed her lightly all over her chest and neck as she came, shuddering in his arms.

"You are beautiful," he whispered. "Thank you, Rose. Thank you."

Rosalie heard what she thought he intended, what she felt, too: thank you for your trust, for trusting me with the moment we just shared.

…

Waking up in Emmett's arms twice in one morning felt like dreaming.

It smelled like home—her bed, her laundry detergent—but like Emmett, too. She turned her nose to his arm, resting under her. He smelled a little like the soap she kept at the kitchen sink, but under that was him, a familiar scent. She took a deep drag, unable to help her smile.

Emmett's hand twitched under her breast, and with a start she remembered that she was naked—completely naked. Slow breaths brought full awareness of her body back to her, and she could feel every of his skin that was pressed up against hers. She could also feel him hard again, nestled lightly against her legs. It seemed like she should feel flustered—being so close and unclothed—but all she could do was feel right. Exactly right.

She tried to remember the last time she felt like that: right. College maybe, however brief. The summer after her sophomore year. Before Roy. Before the accident. Before she became the personification of Hale's Flowers and buried herself in her father's dream.

At some point after the world crumbled around her—after she dug herself out of the rubble—she found her way. A way to be enough. But if she was honest, she had maybe never been happy like this.

Emmett and the ease she felt around him were a revelation. But it was more than that, too. It was her everyday. She looked forward to it. To work. To the market. To rediscovering the joy in her art. To things as simple as dinner at the shop. Edward's comedic wisdom and Garrett's quiet steadiness. Phone calls from Alice that had become wonderfully mundane in their frequency. Even Esme's softly prying concern for her—which Rosalie no longer measured as the older woman's obligation to her dead mother, but as love, as friendship.

When had she ever been so blessedly out of control?

Maybe never.

Emmett groaned and stretched behind her. His fingers combed at the nape of her neck, pulling her hair to the side.

"Morning, again." Soft, wet kisses landed below her ear. "I have to go." His voice crackled, low and scratchy.

Running her bare foot down the length of his shin, she hit sock. He slept with his socks on; he did … other things with his socks on. A heated flush crept up her neck, but not from embarrassment.

"What time is it?"

"Eleven."

"What? Shh— crap. I'm late." Rosalie pulled up, as though to get out of bed, but Emmett's arms held her close, not letting her move. "Like, really late. The shop opens at _ten_."

"Rose. Relax."

The effect of that word on her was unreasonable. She remembered him saying it to her hours before. Squeezing her thighs, she shifted against him, against the soft ache she felt inside.

"Last night was rough. Take it slow this morning. I'll tell Anna you're on your way when I leave. If she stopped for coffee, I'm sure she already knows everything from Esme anyway."

Rosalie tried to imagine the look on Anna's face if Emmett was to do that. It made her grin and feel panicky, all at once. "I'll text her. Where's my phone?"

"Rose," Emmett said, rolling her onto her back and pushing the quilt away. "Don't worry about your phone right now."

...

A half an hour later Rosalie watched Emmett's bare ass walk its way to her shower. Her body was buzzy. As the bathroom door closed she threw her arms over her face and squealed, kicking her feet against the mattress. Before she heard the singing sound of the water being turned on, she thought she might have caught Emmett's chuckle.

The sound of the kittens' claws on her bedroom door roused her from the bed. They swirled around her feet after she let them in, purring loudly. Sweeping each of them into a hand she crawled back over the bed and under the covers.

Acting more like hound dogs than cats, Cam and Bean traced their noses over everything. With their whiskers flat against their faces, they smelled the quilt, the sheets, the pillow Emmett had slept on, even Rosalie herself.

Bean hopped onto her chest, the cool pads of his feet oddly soothing against her warm skin.

"What are you looking at?"

Cam was quick to join her brother and together they sniffed at Rosalie's hair and face. It was so strange it made her wonder if she really seemed different. Different enough that they were checking to see if it was truly her.

"Kits," she whispered, scratching their ears and rubbing down the fronts of their noses, "it's me. It's still me."

She was still her, she told herself, turning onto her side. _Just_ _different_. The cats immediately curled into a knot in the tight space between her bent legs and her folded arms. Their fur felt like silk against her bare chest and stomach. Dozing, she remembered Emmett's fingers sliding over her skin.

It was his finger tracing down her back that brought her back to consciousness.

"Hey, beautiful girl. I'm leaving."

Rolling back, forcing her eyes open, Rosalie saw a red-cheeked, damp-haired Emmett standing above her.

"You call me beautiful?" she asked, stretching and rolling toward him. She caught his eyes as they took in her body and a thrill skipped up the center of her chest. She felt no urge to cover herself.

"I do." The mattress dipped as he set his knee on its edge and bent over to give her a chaste kiss. Despite that, the tangle of their bodies over the course of the morning replayed in her mind as his mouth moved against hers. Amazed by the power of her own memory and imagination she gasped, which earned her a light bite on her lower lip and a kiss on the nose.

When he pulled away, Rosalie sighed. "I feel so decadent ... in bed at noon on a Saturday." She felt no rush either. She was different, so unlike her normal self. Maybe the kittens were onto something.

"I'd still be here with you if I didn't have this client. No time to reschedule." He looked over at the clock, his disappointment clear. "Can I … Rosalie?"

"Yes?"

He curled his fingers into her hair and looked her in the eye, despite the temptation of her bare chest. "Can I take you out tonight?"

Even with their intimacy so fresh in her mind, she still felt a shy flush warm her cheeks.

"Yes."

…

Anna's reaction was not what Rosalie had expected. Instead of asking why it was Emmett who had passed on that she would be late, Anna said:

"Riley's an asshole. He's been asking for it for a while." She grunted, moving a bucket of flowers from the back of the cooler to the front. "I love that it was you that finally let him have it."

"I guess I didn't realize you knew him." Rosalie was recognizing that there was a lot she didn't realize. That until recently her world consisted mostly of the shop, her apartment and occasional walk to Cullen's Market. But even as she'd opened her world up to Emmett and Alice, to Edward and Garrett, it was still a very small world. Anna was a part of her everyday, and she didn't know much about her.

"Yeah. He's a regular at the Tavern. He's always harassing Alice. Mostly when Garrett or Edward aren't around, though." Standing, Anna bent back and stretched. "I mean, he had to know it would happen eventually. The rest of us sure did. I bet he didn't guess it would be a woman that did it, though." Her smile was one of someone who was extremely satisfied. "Love it," she mumbled.

Rosalie didn't feel as pleased as Anna seemed to be. But she felt a steady undercurrent of suppressed pride. Not for breaking Riley's nose, but for rising to what the moment had demanded of her. For not hiding. For living. Unsure of what to say in response, she thanked Anna instead. "Well, I really appreciate you holding down the fort this morning."

"Not a problem. I … could do it more, actually. Except for market mornings, it's pretty slow before lunch. You know?"

Rosalie nodded, wondering what that would be like—mornings off. She could sleep. She could work in the garden. She could draw. She could have more mornings like she had just had with Emmett, maybe. "Hmmmm ..."

"I mean, whatever you're comfortable with." Anna's face was full of hope and Rosalie accepted that she really hadn't been paying attention enough. If Anna wanted more responsibility and she was completely capable, why not give it to her? She chewed her lip thoughtfully while Anna ran through orders.

"Only one new order today, but it's rush. C.O.B. I've got the flowers organized and ready for you for the Weber job. And I've loaded the arrangements for the Newton wedding. I'll leave in about thirty. Other than that we're all caught up."

"What's the rush order?"

"Just a corsage. They wanted plumeria, but that's special order, so they asked for calla instead."

_Calla lily. Magnificent beauty. _

"Interesting choice. Okay. That's easy enough. What color?"

"He didn't say. Seemed more concerned about the meaning, actually." Anna looked away, rubbing her face. She looked like she might say something else, but it was gone quickly.

"Alright, well, I'll see what comes to me. Maybe orange. I'm feeling sort of orange today." Rosalie turned to go to the front of the shop but stopped. "Anna?"

"Yeah?"

"You … you're doing a really great job. I should tell you that more. This morning was unexpected, and you really stepped up. All week, really." Anna beamed, and the effect that someone else's happiness had on her surprised Rosalie. "Let's talk about schedules on Monday."

"Yeah?"

"Yep."

"Great! Thanks, Rosalie."

As she passed back through the door to the front of the shop, Rosalie heard her whisper, "wow," and it made her smile.

...

The white and green embroidered sundress chose itself. And, still clinging to the orange feeling she had had earlier in the day as she made the corsage, Rosalie plucked her carnelian-colored pumps from the back of her closet.

"Wear something pretty," he had said.

She wished she had thought to ask more questions._ Where are we going? What are we doing?_ But she had been too distracted by his hands and his mouth to think of it at the time.

The sundress felt just right, though. _Wear a dress_ felt like an accurate translation of, "wear something pretty," when she remembered how Emmett looked at her when he said it. He liked her legs. Her calves. Her ankles. At least, that was the impression he had given her. Slipping her feet into her shoes, she arched back and looked down at the flex of her calf muscles. She couldn't suppress her grin.

A knock rattled the door and her heart jumped. It shouldn't have been possible. Only someone who had a key, like Esme, could be at the door without her ringing them up. Anxiety crawled, cold, up the back of her neck. She tried to remember, had she forgotten the lock downstairs?

Tip-toeing lightly, not letting her heels touch the floor, she made her way to the door. _It's not Riley_, she repeated like a mantra. But she couldn't help the frayed voice beneath that that said, _Right?_

She leaned forward, hands pressed flat against the door, and peered through the peephole. A nervous-looking Emmett in a purple-checked button-down stood on the other side. Relief washed through her, but she was no less nervous.

The deadbolt clicked, and she opened the door. Having forgot the chain lock, though, it stopped short with a dull ca-chunk. She greeted Emmett through the cracked opening. "You startled me."

"You didn't lock the door downstairs."

"No, I guess I didn't."

"I couldn't wait." He dipped his head, smiling.

"No, I guess you couldn't." She smiled back, before closing the door, sliding the chain from its channel, and then swinging it back open.

Emmett stood there, shuffling, hands behind his back. "You need to be careful about that door, Rose."

"I always am. I was distracted … looking forward to tonight."

Emmett's face pinched into a sad smile. It read as a mixture of pleasure and concern. "Just … don't. Maybe you should get one of those electric locks or something, so you can be sure it's locked from up here."

Rosalie sighed and reached out, grabbing Emmett's bicep. "Don't you look nice in violet," she said, pulling him into the apartment.

"Rosalie …"

"What? It does really nice things to your eyes," she said, eliciting a reluctant smile.

She felt playful and bold. Rocking forward on her feet she planted a soft kiss on the underside of his chin. He had shaved, and the contrast between his now baby-soft jaw and the scratchy scruff on her chest earlier in the morning made her shiver.

Pulling back, she cocked her head and said, "An electronic lock sounds like a good idea. But can we stop talking about home security?"

"Okay. Mmmm ..." He looked embarrassed, but determined. "But just one more thing, while I'm thinking of potential dangers."

"Okay ..." Rosalie didn't attempt to hide her indulgent smile. "What?"

"I'm pretty sure Tyler is on something. I should have said something before, but you should keep your eye on him."

"Yeah. I know. I actually let him go earlier this week." Emmett's eyebrows lifted, and Rosalie shrugged. "He missed market morning again, and when he did show up he was fidgety and ... just weird. He's been weird for a while, actually. I'd had enough."

It was Emmett's turn to smile indulgently. He stepped forward, pulling one hand from behind his back and wrapping it around her waist. He continued to walk, holding her steady on her feet as they backed further into the apartment.

"I already changed the alarm code," Rosalie stuttered. "And the locksmith is coming on Monday. I'll have him look at electronic locks for the street and roof doors then."

"Good, good. You've got it all under control. Good."

She had been right. The color of his shirt did do wonderful things to his eyes. He looked down at her, his pursed mouth twisted in amusement. Weakness crawled up the back of her legs and settled along the length of her spine.

"You look beautiful, Rose."

"So do you …" Again his smile made her feel wobbly. "I mean, handsome." Emmett bent down to kiss her lightly on the lips. He trailed little pecks over her cheek to her ear. Eyes closed, she tried to breathe slow. "No one calls me Rose."

"You don't like it?" he murmured against her ear.

"I didn't say that. I love it, actually … when you say it." Feeling shy, she forced her eyes to meet his. So close up, they were made indigo by his shirt.

"Good."

They stood looking at one another for a moment, then with a sly smile, Emmett brought his other hand from behind his back. He held a corsage—the orange calla wound in bear grass that she had made earlier in the day.

"It was you?" Taking the flower from him, she twirled it between her fingers. _Magnificent beauty._ Of all the choices he could have made he picked the calla to replace the perfection of plumeria. And these meanings were for her? She felt momentarily faint.

"It was me."

"Sneaky," she whispered, a blush heating her face.

"I feel sort of bad, having you make your own corsage, but I didn't want to throw my business to the competition either." His smile was like a flower, blooming, unfurling itself.

"No one's ever given me flowers, actually. Other than my dad."

"Really?"

Saying it had made a dull sorrow swell in her chest. For the first time, though, it was born of what her parents would miss, rather than how she missed them. She looked up at Emmett. His brows were pulled together.

"Nope. Another first." Emmett shook his head in disbelief. "And now you're taking me on a proper date. Another."

"Another what?"

"Well, I mean … I've been on a date before, but ..."

"A … date? As in singular." Emmett looked flabbergasted—maybe horrified.

"No." She laughed. "More than one ... in college. I fell victim to Vera's very good intentions. But they were never like real dates. Just set-ups, in a group. And never with anyone I really … liked."

"Oh …"

A flash of insecurity washed through Rosalie. She worried again about her inexperience. If, eventually, the novelty would wear off.

"Well, I'm happy to be of service." Emmett touched his forehead with two fingers and then leaned down to kiss her—this time, a little less innocently.

Weakness and warmth crept up Rosalie's legs again. How easy it would be to skip the date. So easy.

"Am I dressed okay?" she asked, leaning back, breathless. "I didn't know where we were going."

"Perfect." Emmett huffed a low laugh, bringing his thumb to his lips. Taking her hand, he urged Rosalie to follow him into the hallway. Outside the door, he scooped up a picnic basket. "I hope this qualifies … as proper."

"A picnic? Where?"

"Follow me."

Threading his fingers through hers, he led her up, instead of down—climbing the last flight of stairs toward the roof.

...

As they stepped out of the stairwell and onto the nearly-finished wood decking, Rosalie saw a wild head of hair disappearing down the fire escape. "Was ... was that Edward?"

"Yeah." Emmett chuckled and rounded the corner. "He's helping me out. Making up for having sex in the shop."

"What?"

"Long story."

Rosalie followed him around the corner, watching her feet as she went, being careful not to catch a heel between the wood slats.

"Okay?"

Emmett stopped, setting the basket down, and pulled her forward to step around him. Looking up, Rosalie gasped.

Fairy lights were everywhere: woven throughout the mimosa tree; draped like bunting along the roof edge. A rough table, made from a wooden palette, was at the center of it all. It sat on an outdoor rug, surrounded by hot pink, plastic chairs.

Rosalie stepped up and ran her toe over the bold outlines of the graphic roses on the rug. "When did you do all this?" She turned to Emmett, who stood with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He actually looked bashful.

"Garrett and I have been building the table for your roof warming party. And Alice had already picked out the rug. I had Edward put it all together while I worked on my client today." She stared at him in disbelief. "And … Esme made my mom's meatloaf." He toed the picnic basket, grinning.

Rosalie felt tears tease at the corner of her eyes. She bit her lip, trying to keep the puff of joy she felt in her chest from escaping.

"Is it okay?"

"Perfect," she choked, stepping up to him and brushing her lips against his. "It's perfect."

"Rose?" Emmett pulled back, a shade of worry marring his features. "Next time it will be all me, though. It's just ... I wanted tonight to be special and I didn't have time. Taking you to some restaurant didn't feel quite right."

"No, no." Rosalie reached up and caressed his cheek. "I can't believe all this, Emmett. The trouble you went to."

"This is no trouble." He swept his arm around the roof. "Not even close. I wanted to show you ... how important you are, Rose." He smoothed her hair back from her face. "This is nothing compared to that."

Pulling her close, he kissed her forehead, her temple, then moved his mouth to hers. The sun was dropping and had settled, warm on her back. Lost in Emmett's embrace, though, she felt more heated from the inside out. She could feel the red streaks blooming on her cheeks, on her chest.

What had happened? She had had what felt like a lifetime of half a life. And now, because she'd stood in line at Cullen's Market at just the right moment, because she had let a tattooed pixie charm her into opening her closed world, she was standing here with a whole life in front of her.

She felt like a perennial finally getting its perfect season—just the right amount of rain, soil and sun. She was blooming, lush and bright.

Perfect.

Emmett pulled back and studied her bemused look. Leaning over, he lifted the basket up to the table. Dropping a last peck on the crown of her head, he stepped away and started to unpack it.

"There's a bottle of wine for you."

"Oh, I don't need that. I don't want … in front of you. It's okay."

"No, no. It's fine. It's not like that, Rose." He reached out and touched her elbow. "Esme packed it. But … it looks like there's no opener."

"It's not a screw cap?"

Emmett shook his head and tipped the neck of the bottle toward her, showing her the cork.

"Oh. Then there's a wine knife in the drawer by my kitchen sink."

"Okay, I'll grab it and then you can show me how to use it."

Rosalie grinned, watching him lumber back to the stairwell. "Can you grab my sweater off the couch, too?" She rubbed at the chill his absence had left on her arms.

"Yep." He turned, and the flash of his dimples made her heart jump. "I'll be back, right quick," he said and disappeared around the corner and down the stairs.

Left to look around the roof, she again wondered at everything they had done. How everything twinkled in the waning light.

She felt like she was twinkling—sparkling under her skin.

Wandering to the roof's edge at the front of the building, she looked down at Miss Pixie's. Edward was walking back across the street, looking at his phone. When he pulled the shop door open, she heard the now familiar jingle, even from three stories up.

Laughter danced out onto the sidewalk through the open door, and Alice appeared from within to greet him.

"All done?" Rosalie heard, and then Edward's "yep," in answer before the door swung shut.

Alice glanced up toward the roof and caught her looking down. Her infectious smile stretched wide, and she waved frantically. Rosalie returned her wave as Alice lifted her hand to her ear, mimicking the shape of a phone. "Call me," she mouthed. Rosalie's exaggerated nod assured her that she would.

Edward crossed behind Alice to the desk. Then Garrett rolled into view, drawing her attention away as he placed a hand on the back of her leg.

Rosalie wondered at the small touches she now realized she had been witnessing between them. Was there something more going on?

When Alice looked up again, Rosalie lifted her hand to her ear, mockingly. "Call me," she mouthed back, pointing to the two of them. Alice nodded with a smile, lifting a shoulder.

She seemed herself.

They all seemed themselves as they laughed in a silent chorus.

The drama of the previous night clung to no one—not even, Rosalie found, her.

It turned out that in springtime everything could be new.

Behind her, she heard the hollow pop of a cork and sound of wine being poured. "It looks like I may have figured it out," Emmett said.

_So have I_, Rosalie thought. _So have I._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**First of all, as always, this note is not beta'd. :)**

**Second, you can skip it if you want. Much to my surprise, it's sort of long. There are thank yous, a bit of self-indulgent introspection ... and, as requested by a few of you, my deviled egg recipe is at the bottom. ;)**

**Like many of you, I've written since I was little, all the way through college and grad school. I published a few things. Short stories. Poetry. Even won an award. I loved it. I thought this was something I would do eventually do for real. You know ... like in the real world? Then I had an experience that left me feeling impotent. For my own reasons, I quit writing for almost 15 years. I mean, I didn't _quit_. There was actual real life to deal with, and I did dabble with a manuscript that I really loved. But really, I didn't feel like I could ever write it the way I wanted to, or the way I thought it deserved to be written. **

**So, yeah, I essentially quit.**

**Then, one day, my friend RillaotValley told me about this thing called fanfiction. She then reluctantly confessed that she wrote it. I thought, well, isn't that interesting, but I never considered that I would write it myself. I mean, I had given all that up.**

**So, I read. A lot. I fangirled. Made friends. Went deeper down the rabbit hole.**

**Despite my best efforts to remain a non-writer, though, somewhere along the way I felt my creativity starting to bubble. There is so much talent in this fandom. Inspiring talent. Being exposed to it, I felt the itch to write again. I pulled out that old MS and ... found it equally, if not more, frustrating.**

**So, I read more.**

**Then zazasant came over one night and we drank a lot of wine. Buckets, maybe. I was waxing poetic on how I'd like to go back to college and get a sociology degree with a focus on fandom and fanfiction—because it is just that fascinating—and somewhere in the middle of explaining my brilliant take on it all, I got the idea for this story.**

**I think I sat down at my computer that very night.**

**I wrote and wrote and wrote. The words just poured out of me. Five thousand in two days. More than I had written in what felt like a lifetime. I was dumbfounded. I hit a wall or two, or six, faced down more block (what we fondly like to call Voldemort) and then I wrote some more.**

**I created discipline around my words.**

**Along the way, I hooked up with my girls. Turns out that Moirae/S.D. Ryan and I are sisters from other misters. I got drunk and tweeted with IReenH to ask her what WC meant. I DMed with Thimbles and Believeitornot when I didn't understand the latest drama in my TL. raindropsoup and dragonfly336 hit me with the beta magic. And we all laughed. Man, we laughed.**

**And I wrote and wrote and wrote.**

**And then I finished. Wow. I actually finished.**

**So, this is the first thing I've written of any length or significance in more than 15 years. God, I'm rusty. But I loved writing it. LOVED it. Even when it made me crazy, I loved it. These characters just got right under my skin. (I think I actually fell in love with Emmett. And there's a little of me in Rosalie and vice versa.) Reading it over again a few months ago, there's so much I would change or do differently, if I could go back. (That's the interesting thing about writing serially, right?) There are also those little nuggets that I feel are perfectly formed.**

**Overall, I'm incredibly proud of the story I told. I've learned so much about myself as a writer. I've made amazing friends. And I've got the itch again. That's what they call a win-win-win.**

**So, thank you all, for the part you played in that. It's a gift.**

**Dreamy**

* * *

><p><strong>And finally. My deviled eggs recipe.<strong>

**1 Dozen eggs**

**The rest of the ingredients are to taste. I don't really have measurements, but if I can estimate I will.**

**1 can coconut milk - separated (I'll explain below.)**

**~1 TBSP olive oil**

**~3 scallions - finely minced**

**1 clove fresh garlic - finely minced (garlic press is best)**

**2 cloves fresh garlic - thinly sliced**

**cumin**

**salt and pepper**

**Sriracha for garnish**

**Regarding the coconut milk:**

**When you get a can of coconut milk, if it has separated, you'll find that it's like water on the bottom of the can and more like sour cream on the top. Don't shake or stir the can. You want the thicker stuff on top.**

**Directions:**

**Boil and separate the eggs.**

**In a separate bowl add:**

**olive oil**

**hard boiled yolks**

**minced scallions**

**minced garlic**

**cumin**

**salt and pepper**

**Mix into a paste, then fold in about 1/3 cup of the thick separated coconut milk. This may be more or less, depending on the consistency of the paste you've made.**

**Now, I fry the garlic slices into crispy chips. You can skip this if you want.**

**Spoon or pipe the filling into the egg halves. Stick a chip into the filling and squeeze a dot of Sriracha onto each. Serve at room temperature (because there is nothing worse than cold deviled eggs). You can also have a little dish of cumin on the side for dipping. I like that, but it's not for everyone.**

**If you like it, or hate it, let me know on twitter: dreamnorweigen. Yummmm ... just thinking about it making me want them.**


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